


Aomori 青森

by TreacleA



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angsty Hannibal, Bottom Hannibal, Hannibal Speaks Japanese Faultlessly, Hannigram Noir, I'm Just Fairly Obsessed With Hannigram AND Japan OK?, IntrospectiveWill, Its Pretty Plotty TBH, JapanoHannigram If That's A Thing Now, M/M, Masturbation, No It's Not An AU, Oral Sex, POV Will Graham, Plot-with-Porn, Post-Canon, Post-WOTL, Probably Way Too Much Talking, Run-On Sentences R Us, SchemingHannibal, Shower Sex, Slow Burn, Some Japanese Will Be Spoken, There Be Murders, Top Will, Vivid Descriptions of Tempura
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2018-02-15
Packaged: 2019-02-16 20:00:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 33,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13061127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TreacleA/pseuds/TreacleA
Summary: 67% of Japan is forest. What better place to start a new life?





	1. Aomori

**Author's Note:**

  * For [skaloo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/skaloo/gifts).



> This is my first Hannibal fic, which honestly I can scarcely believe. I've been a Fannibal from day one, and a fanfic writer for longer than I care to mention *cough* 20 years *cough*. I guess I just never felt the need to write anything for these two, as the series seemed to pretty much fulfil my every ambition for them. It's been a while now though and lately - as I've been reading some great post-S3 stories - it started to feel like maybe I might have one inside me as well. 
> 
> So that said, this is it, essentially a paean to my two great loves: Japan and Hannigram, and is gifted to my dear LJ bud Skaloo, who listened to a lot of my shit as I wrote this and never told me to stop going on about my kinks or to shut the fuck up about how Bottom!Hannibal is the only Hannibal that makes sense for me.
> 
> Please consider sharing the link to this story on your Tumblr, Twitter or FB and please comment if you can. Kudos is nice and all, but comments (as we all know) are a ficwriter's life-blood - **TA** x

# 青森  
Aomori

 

 

 

The life they build together is a quiet one.

For Will, that’s no kind of adjustment. Subtracting the commitments and daily interactions a family life entailed feels like a slow, gradual relaxing into a state of being he greets with a sigh of relief. It’s the place where he always felt most balanced, but which he moved away from when he met Molly and Walter. When he thinks back to his life at Moosehead Lake, he imagines himself like a deer stood in a meadow at midday, exposed and unnatural. Like he was playing the part of a different, divergent Will Graham. One whose mind hadn’t split and travelled down an alternative route, decades back now.

His life with Hannibal is the opposite of that. Living together as they do now – in the deep shadows of the forest - Will feels a calmness and clarity he has rarely experienced before. He wakes at dawn every day with a mindful, fully present anticipation of the day ahead. His body, although deeply scarred by everything he and Hannibal have experienced together, feels strong and vibrant with life. The soles of his feet when he drops them to the bare floorboards, can sense every groove and hitch of the surface. Every morning he stretches his arms above his head and finds himself marvelling at the construction of them: the muscles curved tightly around the bones, the pale soft skin of his forearms, the fine chiselling of the ulna into his wrist. He twists his head to one side, and he hears and feels the corded sinews flex and crackle with a delicious discomfort. It’s his morning ritual that doesn’t feel like a ritual. Because he doesn’t do it out of habit, only a kind of constant, daily, reoccurring wonder at being alive, fully and completely alive, and in possession of this body of his.

Occasionally - from the doorway of his room - he catches Hannibal watching him, and the wordless silence between them fills with an energy that Will always finds both disquieting and deeply familiar. Disquieting because his heartrate tells him so, and familiar because it is and will always be the natural state between this man and himself.

Hannibal watches him openly now, although he doesn’t touch him or even approach him closer than necessity demands. In the days and weeks after their escape together, his hands on Will’s body had become as familiar to him as his own. Hannibal had cleaned and dressed his wounds with the same deft efficiency as Will imagined he would an unfamiliar patient, wrapping and rewrapping his broken ribs in silence, with only the occasional professional enquiry into pain levels. He offered no words of reassurance, or indicated any satisfaction at his own work as the carefully sutured scars healed, only the most perfunctory of exams accompanied with as little eye contact as possible. It took two long weeks before he would hold Will’s gaze for more than a few moments, and it was only when he finally did that Will understood why.

Hannibal was uncertain.

It was an emotion he had never felt or seen before in his hazel eyes, and yet it was unmistakable. And caught, identified and catalogued as he instantly understood he was, Hannibal finally stilled, and allowed himself to be seen.

His breathing, at first regular and deep, became almost imperceptible, his pupils widening fractionally as the moment stretched out between them, spun tight like a strand of sugar. Inclining his head fractionally, Will realised that he actually could hear Hannibal’s heartbeat straining under his control, threatening to betray him, and then in the same moment he realised something else. That Hannibal was letting him hear it. Meeting his eyes again, he saw a tiny movement. Hannibal’s lips had parted slightly, his jaw lifting a few millimetres while the rest of his body remained perfectly still. It was almost imperceptible, but seeing it Will found himself suddenly filled with a sense of wonder and fascination he couldn’t even begin to find the edges of. Standing in front of him in that moment, holding his gaze, he knew with complete certainty that Hannibal had never allowed himself to be so completely vulnerable in his entire life.

After that, it seemed as if they were always looking at each other. Like there was a constant silent conversation, one that covered every single nuance and detail of their unfolding life together, without a single extraneous word being spoken. One evening, almost a month after the fall, sat in front of a fire in some stranger’s Catskills holiday home, Hannibal raised his head from the book he was reading and asked him what he thought of Japan.  
  
Will frowned slightly, pressing his own book open on his thigh and taking a sip from the glass of wine at his side.  
  
       “Do they have a lot of forests in Japan?”  
  
       “It is 67% forested.”  
  
       “I remember reading that somewhere.”  
  
       “They’re largely broadleaf. The Japanese grew a variety of trees during feudal times for traditional building purposes, and for firewood. Now the forests stretch uninterrupted for many many miles.” Hannibal’s eyes reflected the fire. Reaching over Will with the bottle, he refilled his glass. “In the autumn the mountains in the Aomori region are spectacular. Every hue of orange, red and gold that you can imagine.”

Will’s lips curved slightly in a smile, and he opened his book again.    
  
       “Then I think I like Japan.”

And that was how their decisions were made, then and forever more it seemed. One of them would express a thought, and the other understood every part of it - every aspect of the why, how and when - with no further discussion necessary. If Hannibal made plans as they went, Will never saw any evidence of them, only marvelled quietly at what he assumed was the decades-old system of escape routes his friend had constructed. There was money – a seemingly endless supply – new documents as and when they needed them, and clothes and footwear appropriate for weather and location were sourced, seemingly without effort. Even so, it occurred to Will that Hannibal was less following a carefully considered strategy than he was simply tacking like a sailboat, moving gracefully from point to point, scouting for the next gust of wind that would carry them onwards.  

It was late August when they had finally begun the journey to Japan. Having spent the previous months moving from one opulent location to another in North America and Canada, it did not surprise Will when, rather than a fast, low-profile flight, Hannibal booked them passage on a luxury cruise ship that would take 2 weeks to get to their location. Instead, he found himself faintly amused at Hannibal’s seeming lack of caution, understanding as he did that his friend was nothing if not eternally vigilant.

Although there was never any talk of hiding, at some point Will shaved his beard, although if anyone had asked him why he probably wouldn’t have been able to define his reason. He found that he liked the smoother face that looked back at him from the mirror. Even with the new scar, he fancied he looked younger, clearer-eyed somehow. Hannibal had made no changes whatsoever to his appearance, although it was obviously only a matter of time before he sought out the services of a professional barber to deal with his longer hair. It wasn’t something either of them discussed, so there was a moment of wry, mutual amusement when they both returned to the cabin with fresh haircuts on the same day.

       “It suits him.”  
  
One of the elderly ladies that Will had politely passed the time of day with during the first week of the trip, touched his forearm during dinner that evening.

       “I’m sorry?”

       “Your…partner. His new haircut.”

Her cheeks pinked a little, and she gave a small laugh, as if she’d said something naughty.

       “He looks very dashing!”

Glancing over at him, Will couldn’t tell if Hannibal had heard the comment or not. Engaged as he was in entertaining their captain, his attention seemed firmly and completely fixed on the gentlemen and ladies in front of him. He was dressed impeccably in a hand-tailored white tux and tie that would have looked ostentatious on any other man, and Will puzzled again over Hannibal’s seeming delight in the act of hiding in plain sight. Later, propped up on his pillows with Thoreau, Will watched him unbutton his cufflinks, shuck off the beautiful ice-cream white jacket, and brush it down before hanging it back inside the closet.   
  
       “Have you always liked clothes?” he heard himself ask, before he’d even considered why he would want to know the answer.

Glancing back at him over his shoulder, Hannibal slid off his suspenders.

       “Yes. I think maybe my earliest and happiest memories have to do with clothes. Beautiful clothes. Watching my mother dressing for parties, watching my father. My parents had wonderful taste, and we were lucky enough to have a great number of talented designers as family friends. My mother was a true patron of their art.”

       “And later? After they were gone?”  
  
       “Afterwards there was my aunt. She also taught me a great deal.”

       “About clothes?”  
  
       “About clothes. And about armour.”

Unbuttoning his shirt, Hannibal shrugged it off and dropped it into the laundry bag as he headed for the shower. The simple, prosaic act brought a faint smile to Will’s face. Hannibal as human being, as someone whose clothing required laundering, whose face required daily shaving, was still a new experience for him. Living as they had been, in close proximity for almost 3 months now, he still wasn’t entirely sure he was used to it. Hannibal’s ability to control what parts of himself he allowed to be seen had always been a huge part of his defences, and – having shared so much time alone with him now - Will was acutely aware of how low those defences were towards him.

Slipping out of bed, he padded over the thick carpet into the bathroom. Through the frosted glass of the shower cubicle he could see the outline of Hannibal’s body as he rested his hands against the tiled wall and let the water run over him.

       “Would you teach me?”

Will’s voice was soft, but he knew that Hannibal could hear him. Because he always did. He was always listening.  
  
       “About clothes?”

His voice had just the faintest hint of a question mark, the hint of that same raw, un-Hannibal vulnerability he had seen that first evening he had let him.

       “About armour.”

There was a long pause. The water shut off. Through the glass, Will saw his head drop a fraction.

       “I thought we were finished with armour, Will.”

There was a deep weariness to his voice that Will felt in his bones, a heavy, dragging sadness that reminded him painfully of Hannibal’s kitchen, his face as he’d stood over him, swaying and drenched in his own blood. For a moment he thought he might laugh, but he was afraid if he did it might come out as a sob. Leaning forward, he rested his head against the glass of the shower door.

       “We are Hannibal. We’re done with armour. Against each other. I promise.”

On the other side of the glass, he felt a movement as Hannibal laid his forehead against it, against his own. He could hear his breathing, deep and regular, matching his, and they stood that way, the connection stretching again, painfully open for as long as he could bear it. Eventually, stepping away, he returned to his bed and, after a while, the water started up again. Stretched on his back, Will lay listening to it, long past the point at which he fell asleep.

 

∞

 

Months have passed now since that time, marked only by the changing colours of the leaves in their new home. Deep in the Shirakami Mountains, four miles hike to the nearest tiny country station, the two men have built their quiet life. The little wooden house they inhabit is maybe ninety-five metres square, consisting of one large living area, two bedrooms, a simple kitchen and a small bathroom. To their nearest neighbours – an elderly, retired farmer and his wife - they are happily accepted anachronisms. A German translator who speaks flawless Japanese, and a Canadian entomologist, engaged in a long term study of indigenous insects.

Will fishes in the many streams and rivers that flow down the mountain, and with every passing day, week, month he feels the calm flowing deeper within him. In the evenings they eat and read, or listen to the radio, although only ever to local channels. Will is teaching himself to carve hardwoods. Hannibal is learning the shamisen. The best evenings though are when they do nothing but talk. Lying side by side on the larch-shingled roof, staring up at the stars and listening to the night birds, Will is filled with wonder as a side of Hannibal he has never seen before slowly emerges from the darkness. Sometimes he wonders if the line between them has become so impossibly blurred that Hannibal has forgotten that they are two separate people, such is his willingness to let Will know him. They inhabit separate rooms, have separate spaces they call their own, but there is an effortlessness to their interactions now which expands daily, to create more and more freedom with each other. It is, as Hannibal so eloquently puts it one evening, as if they have both become the receptacle and the liquid that fills it.

Then, three months after they came to live in the mountains, Will awakes one morning to find Hannibal gone. His clothes are still in his closet, his futon neatly rolled away as always, but his absence is palpable. He is not in the house, or in the garden, or anywhere in the woods surrounding the house, and Will cannot feel him anywhere. For three long days Will waits, fishes in the nearest stream, patrols the boundaries of their home. On the fourth day he climbs a tall larch tree overlooking the gorge to the very top and stands, wavering in the uppermost branches, staring down at the stony ground far beneath. He thinks about the sound his body would make as it hit the rocks, the sudden, earth-shattering pain, and then the silence. When it starts to get dark, he watches the distant golden lights in the village come on one by one. Listens to the faint soft sounds of farm machinery, the working machine of people’s lives. Then he climbs down, goes into his house and goes to bed.

The room is in complete darkness when he starts awake, but he knows instantly that he is not alone. He feels his heartbeat, at first wild and erratic in his chest, gradually slow and regain its normal steady rhythm as the long minutes stretch out. Laid out on his back, Will feels the hardness of the floor underneath the futon mattress, the points at which his heels, his thighs, his ass, his shoulder blades, meet the floor. It's not much softer than the larch shingled roof. Not much more comfortable either and, raising himself up on one elbow, he looks into the darkness at the other side of his bed, before slowly reaching and turning back the covers. Wordlessly, Hannibal crawls inside.

In the dark, their breath mingles, and Will wonders absently where he has been, although he already doesn't care. The faintest light from the approaching dawn is tinging the room now, and illuminating the cheekbones of his monster. Hidden in shadow, his eyes are nothing but darkness, and it suddenly seems the most natural thing in the world to lift one hand and trace his jawline, move the hair back that has fallen over one eye. Hannibal’s lips part, and Will thinks again that he has never seen anyone look so completely vulnerable. When he speaks, his voice sounds as raw as his expression.

       “I thought I could leave, but I can’t.”

       “Why would you want to?”

Hannibal’s head dips to his chest, hiding his face.

       “I don’t.”  
  
“Then why would you have to?”

Exasperation has leaked into his voice, Will can hear it. Reaching under covers, he finds Hannibal’s hand and pulls it up to rest on his chest. Under his splayed fingers, Will feels his heart-rate climb to that fast, familiar rhythm.

       “Why would you have to,“ he says again, and pulls Hannibal into him.

Their lips meet in a sudden hot soft slide of tongues and breath, and a pulse of electricity stronger than anything Will has ever felt travels at lightning speed from the centre of his body to the top of his head, and explodes behind his eyes. He is spinning out, and then almost immediately, he’s not. He’s in his body, more firmly, more completely than he’s ever been before, with his fingers tangling in Hannibal’s hair, needing to be closer to him than he knows it’s possible to be, but wanting it all the same.

He thinks how it would feel to sink his teeth into Hannibal, to bite him and mark him like he has been marked, leave identifiable scars all over his body. Then he thinks about licking the wounds like a dog, about healing them, the way Hannibal healed him and suddenly, overcome with something he can barely understand, he buries his head in Hannibal’s throat, and starts to laugh. Deep, spiralling, breath-stealing laughs that somehow get confused on the way out, until he isn’t sure any more if he’s laughing or crying.

Hannibal rolls his head back on his neck for a moment, looking for him, and seems unable to process Will’s expression. Taking his face in both hands, he frowns slightly, breathlessly, and Will answers his question without him having to ask it.

       “It’s OK. I’m OK,” he frowns as well, half-confused, half-amused at himself. “I just…I suddenly realised that I’m in love with you. It just came as kind of a surprise is all.”

Hannibal’s lips quirk up at the side, and one hand slides down to trace Will’s jaw. Catching his bottom lip gently in his teeth, he traces a line along it with the tip of his tongue, before capturing his whole mouth. When he finally breaks the kiss, Will is panting. Looking directly into his eyes, Hannibal’s expression is a mixture of delight and pure arrogance.

       “If you’d only thought to ask me, Will,” he says, “I could have told you that months ago.”

 


	2. Mountain

# 山 

[mountain[

 

The tiny village of Fujikoto is unremarkable in almost every way, but neither Mr. Noburu or his wife Noriko have ever found any solid reason to move away from it, even after their three sons had grown up and all decided to. Noburu-san, although officially retired from farming, still rises early every day to help out with the livestock on his neighbour’s property, but once his daily work is done he enjoys nothing more than a leisurely stroll into the village to catch up on the local news from his good friend Koso Ichi who runs the store. The store – although filled with a comprehensive range of goods and household supplies – is less a shop than it is a meeting place for the older locals of the area who no longer have work to bring them together. Which, most people accept, makes verbose, self-important Ichi-san their official unelected chairman, a role he inhabits with a great deal of enthusiasm. Greeting every visitor to his store with the same cheery, overly-loud “Irasshaimase!”, Ichi-san revels in the act of doling out the local gossip in delicious, bitesize chunks, always allowing each piece of information to settle in the stomach before offering the next. 

It was in this way that Noburu first heard about the two men who were moving into the small mountain house closest to his own. Ichi-san’s information was scant, but it was he, and he alone, who had put the German gentleman in touch with Tanaka-san when he had first called to enquire if Ichi knew of a rental property local to the the center of the national park. And it was he alone who had been asked to give the convoluted directions to the village from the station and on to the house, before instead offering to collect him and his friend and take them there himself. Neither had spoken much during the journey, but Ichi-san had found them both most interesting and cordial, and was happy to reassure Noburu that he and his wife had just become the lucky recipients of two most pleasant – albeit gaijin – new neighbours.

As the months have passed, and both Noburu-san and Noriko have met them occasionally on the road and in town, they have been pleased to be able to agree with Ichi-san’s assessment. The dark haired one - the Canadian - is an excellent fisherman, and sometimes stops in on his way back from the river to share his catch. The grey-haired German is quieter and more reserved, but Mrs. Noburu was recently both surprised and touched by his gift of six exquisite prepared ‘kohada’, which she had to admit with some chagrin were even better than her mother’s. 

Respectful, pleasant but obviously very private people, the two men walk down into the village only two or three times a month for supplies and never seem to receive any visitors, other than the  Yuubin'ya with an occasional parcel.So it is with some surprise that Mrs. Noburu notes the slow progress of a police car up the winding track towards the house one Saturday afternoon as she is hanging out her washing. 

Stopping the car at the Noburu’s gate, a young male police officer exits and comes towards her with a polite, deferential bow. Noriko recognises him immediately as an old classmate and friend of her eldest’s son - Akio Yamata - and gives him a warm, welcoming smile.

       “Good afternoon Akio-chan.” 

The young man’s cheeks pink slightly at the familiar greeting, and he straightens his shoulders.

       “Good afternoon Mrs. Noburu. Excuse me for disturbing your day, but I have a Detective Inspector from Aomori with me in the car. He wants to speak with the Canadian gentleman who is living up in the cabin, if that is possible?”

Frowning slightly, Mrs. Noburu nods her head.

       “You should leave the car here then. The track has a lot of fallen branches and some big holes, you’ll break your axel if you try to drive up.”

       “Sure, sure. I wanted to ask if that is what we might do,” the young policeman gives a grateful nod, “Thank you Mrs. Noburu. It’s not too far to walk then?”

       “A mile and a half, maybe two. They don't have a telephone up there, or I could call ahead and let them know you’re coming.”

       “But they are definitely at home?”

       “They should be. And if they aren't in the house, they won't be far away. The Canadian gentleman is in the woods a great deal I think.”

Nodding to her again, the young policeman politely requests she send his greetings to her son, and then returns to the car. Mrs. Noburu watches him as he bends and speaks briefly to the figure inside. Stepping out of the vehicle, the older man straightens his back, looking towards the track and then glances down at his shoes. As they start to walk to the head of the trail, Mrs. Noburu frowns again and calls out to them.

       “Hey! It’s a muddy walk in those good shoes. Are you sure you wouldn’t like some galoshes?” 

But the two men are already out of earshot. Returning to her clothesline, the old woman stares after them, unable to understand why she feels suddenly uneasy. There can be no doubt that the two gentlemen at the cabin are good people, but there is something about the German that occasionally unsettles her. He has a kind of lazy, sharp-eyed watchfulness that reminds her of a fox spirit. And something tells her that, despite all appearances, the two pleasant, polite men who live alone in the mountain cabin are not the kind of people who pleasantly and politely welcome unexpected guests. 

 

∞

 

For most of the time that they had been living on the mountain, Will found that he had no idea what day of the week it was. Not that that was of any real importance. They rarely ventured down to the village more than once every couple of weeks, and when they did the small store - run by the garrulous, moustached Mr. Ichi - was almost certainly guaranteed to be open. Will did not dislike these rare and necessary interactions with humans other than Hannibal, but over time he realized that lack of practice was making them increasingly difficult to navigate. Living with someone who understood his every thought before he’d expressed it had made him lazy, and even with the lack of language as an excuse, he was aware that his manner likely came off as borderline autistic.

       “Ichi-san thinks I’m weird,” he says one evening as he’s setting the table, and Hannibal pauses in the act of miso-making to give him a quizzical look.

       “What makes you say that?”  
  
       “Kare wa _kimyona_ otokodesu.” 

Hannibal’s lips quirk, and he turns back to his soup. 

       “Strictly speaking, he thinks you are strange. And strange does not mean the same thing to the Japanese as it does Americans,“ he tests the soup, “Strange is just…unusual. Beautiful even. Onibi are strange.”

Will comes to stand alongside him. Hannibal has sliced a dazzling array of vegetables, and without asking for permission he selects one from the arrangement. Bites into it with a crack. Hannibal’s irritation is the faintest flicker of a candle, but Will registers it never the less, and crunches his prize with open amusement.

       “Onibi? That’s like willo-the-wisps right?” he moves to take a baby carrot, but is stopped in his tracks by a low-level glare.

       “Is it not possible to wait until we’re at the table, Will?” 

A new layer of playfulness seems to have emerged between them since Hannibal’s unexplained absence and his return, and Will is surprised at how much he is enjoying it. In the three days since they shared a bed, there has been no mention of the night’s events from either of them, and yet the words that Will spoke still hang in the air, fully exposed and accepted as truth. Now it seems that, rather than demanding anything further, Hannibal is content to simply circle him with quiet anticipation of his next move. Or perhaps it is he who is circling Hannibal. Will finds that he is never entirely clear about these things. 

The hot miso sends a graceful curl of steam into the November air and, setting it down in front of him, Hannibal takes his seat opposite.

       “Could we have some music?” Will asks, and Hannibal blinks.

       “While we’re eating?”

Will grins at his expression. There is such withering disapproval being directed at him, but he refuses to be shamed. 

       “You have music at your dinner parties.”

Hannibal lifts the spoon to his lips and blows delicately across the soup.

       “This is not a party, Will.”

Will’s eyebrows lift fractionally. He blows on his own soup. 

       “It could turn into one."

The miso is delicious, a clear, rich, round taste that seems to Will like distilled autumn. Lost in its aroma, savouring the tiny chunks of silken tofu and scallions, he barely notices at first that Hannibal has stopped eating, and has stilled completely. Laying down his spoon, he listens.

Through the partially open doorway, the faintest of sounds can be heard in the distance, a crack of twigs and then, drifting on the early evening air, just the suggestion of voices. His eyes move to the corner of the room, where the crossbow that he uses for hunting is kept. There is a bolt already notched, and with an unhurried movement, he pushes back his chair, stands and walks over to it.

       “Go and see who it is,” he says, and as he steps through the backdoor, Will flips on the radio.

As he walks around the back of the house, he can hear the voices more clearly. A young man, unmistakably eager, and then an older deeper voice that sounds slightly out of breath. Both are native Japanese, both speak at a normal, casual level and after a few more seconds pass Will hears the younger voice call out a formal-sounding hail. The chatter from the radio inside dissolves into music, and through a narrow gap in the screen window, Will can see that Hannibal has moved to the open doorway. 

       “Konbanwa, shinshi.”

The sun is just beginning to set, so the light in the thick surrounding forest is already dimming. Sliding his back along the side of building, Will moves around the angles of the small tacked-on bath-house, until he can see along the front porch. The house has a low, traditional veranda that runs around two sides, and he can see that the men have already reached it. He can also see that they are policemen.

Looking down the rough track that leads to their home, Will realizes that the men must have come most of the way on foot, probably leaving their car at the Noburu house, which means they might have seen the old couple or asked directions. Mr. Noburu was not often home before sunset, but Mrs. Noburu rarely strayed from their house. She would have seen them, and what’s more she would be curious.

Hannibal’s soft, perfectly accented Japanese is impossible for Will to understand, but it’s obvious from where he stands in the doorway that he is on high alert. Nevertheless, he is unsurprised when his friend steps to one side and welcomes the two policemen into their home with a warm smile. Seconds after the door slides shut behind them, Will hears the sound of the kettle being filled and the faint clink of pottery. Of course. Hannibal is making them tea. Moving along the building again, Will slides up alongside the window which looks into the main living space. The frame is open a few millimeters, enough to allow him to see inside, and breathing evenly he brings his eye up to the gap.

The two men are seated at the table now, while Hannibal stands sideways to them in the kitchen area, pouring hot water into the teapot. Unable to define more than a few words, Will can only guess at what is being said, although when Hannibal offers the word ‘peony’ as the answer to one question, he assumes the conversation is largely revolving around tea. Frowning slightly, he wonders what the motives of these two policemen might be. They seem content just to sit, the older one only occasionally checking his watch, while Hannibal makes what seems very much like polite but seemingly banal chit-chat. Several more minutes pass before Will realizes that the only explanation is that they are waiting for him.

       “Ah James! Good, you're back at last!”

Hannibal doesn't rise from his seat, only straightens with a pleasant smile.

       “These two gentlemen are policemen. This very smart young man is Yamata-san, an officer from our very own village, and this other gentleman is Inspector Nakamori, a police detective from Aomori City.”

Raising his eyebrows in studied surprise, Will slips the crossbow strap from his shoulder and calmly replaces the weapon in the corner he’d taken it from minutes before.

       “Mr. Phillips is a most excellent hunter,” Hannibal offers with a smile, “It is a very rare thing that we have to buy meat. James provides us with a nearly constant supply. Although nothing today I fear.”

Realising that their guests seem to understand English, Will inclines his head with a slight smile as the older Inspector gets to his feet.

       “No, nothing today. Hajima-mashite Inspector. I’m sorry, but I don’t speak much Japanese.”

       “That is no problem Mr. Phillips. No problem.”

The older man’s face is florid, and from more than just the walk Will suspects. As he takes his hand, he notes the familiar slight tremor and dampness of palm that always reminds him of his father. An elderly police detective with a drinking problem, how delightfully cliché. Walking around the table, Will seats himself alongside Hannibal, who takes a cup and pours him some tea. Their soup bowls are nowhere to be seen, and Will realises that Hannibal must have cleared the table before opening the door, to avoid suggestion that their visitors might be anything other than welcome guests. He smiles as he sipped the tea. It’s delicious.

       “So please, how can we be of service to the police, Nakamori-san?”

The story is a complex one, and when the Inspector’s English begins to fail him, they all have to express their gratitude for the presence of Herr  Faulques and his extensive vocabulary. Patiently translating the Inspector’s word, Hannibal relays the catalogue of events that had led him to seek his counsel, a man he understands to be a most respected expert in many species of insects, and specifically in the habits of a certain type of burrowing moth larvae. At some point Will must have started to protest, but is immediately silenced by the look on Hannibal’s face. Professor James N. Phillips of Nelson, British Columbia had written an extensive monograph on Sesiidae larvae in 2007, perhaps even the definitive work on the subject, and whether Will likes it or not he senses he had some tap-dancing to do if he is to satisfy their guests.

       “Gentlemen, Inspector. Although I’m very flattered that you’ve sought me out, I’m unsure how my knowledge of moth larvae can be of any use to you. The particular species of Sesiidae I think you’re referring to originates in Eastern America, it’s not one usually found in this part of the world, so I have to say I’m struggling to understand why it is you’re here, or why the police are concerning themselves with insects.”

The old inspector’s forehead creases in a deep frown as Hannibal translated his words, and then after a moment or two, he seems to come to some kind of decision. Reaching into his leather briefcase, he retrieves a thick sheaf of papers, among them several dozen large glossy photographs. Spreading these out on the table in front of them all, he bows his head briefly in apology.

       “Excuse me,” he mutters, “Excuse me, Mr. Phillips. Mr. Faulques. These are…very bad pictures. Very…ugly pictures. I am sorry.”

And all the sounds in the room seem to stop, all but the hard distinct tick of the old wall clock that Hannibal winds religiously every day. That, Will can hear.Its slow rhythmic tick suddenly drowning out every other noise around them.

The pictures were of girls. 

Four girls. 

Initially Will thinks they might even be the same girl, but then his eyes move from each one to the next, taking in every detail. The neat, moon-shaped incisions in their throats are nearly identical. Nearly, but not quite. Without even asking the question he knows which one had been first, which had been second, and who was the latest. The hair of the first girl was a tumbled mass around her heart-shaped, milk-white face, whereas each progressive kill improved on that, improved, perfected, refined. Will wants to reach into the pictures and touch them, to move the earlier bodies. Make it right.

_See how it should be?_

_That’s what I wanted to do._

_But I was in a hurry wasn’t I?_

_So next time, I made sure I had plenty of time._

For a moment he thinks he’s said the words out loud, but then realizes that no. It’s just a voice in his head, although maybe not just his own. Glancing at Hannibal, it’s as if every thought he’s just had has been viewed by him on a high-definition widescreen, approved of and deeply delighted in. He knows that it would be so, _so_ inappropriate to smile at this moment, so Will frowns instead and tries very hard to remember what horrified people are supposed to look like.

       “Oh my Lord. These are…terrible. What happened to these girls?”

       “They were all killed by the same man. A…maniac.” The inspector shakes his head, his face filled with a kind of uncomprehending despair. “A maniac…who fills them with these.”

The last four photos he slides out from underneath the others. Four near identical pictures again, but of something incredible. Inside the flat, teenage belly of each girl - apparently hidden by a door made of their own skin - a perfect rectangular wooden box sits. Lined with fine linen, spotless and carefully labelled, a specimen case has been inserted with a degree of precision and attention to detail that Will has only seen maybe once before in his life. 

The glass covers of the cases are so clean and clear that at first Will can’t even see them, but of course they’re there. They have to be there, to preserve the precious contents for display. Because inside each case, inside every single belly, are four perfectly and methodically presented examples of the life stages of  Hemaris Thysbe: The Hummingbird Clearwing Moth .


	3. House

# 家

[house]

  
After the two policemen have left them, Hannibal lights the tallow candles in the lanterns and quietly makes up the fire. The warm golden glow spreads out from the hearth, illuminating the corners of the room, but somehow the shadows still persist. The table where they have been sat has been cleared of everything now, but Will can still see the pictures spread out there. Inside his skull something that has been dormant is alive and moving again, skipping lithely from image to image, showing him one bright, blood-red frame after another. He only becomes aware that he’s been standing motionless for some time when Hannibal’s hand comes to rest on the curve of his shoulder. Will can feel his warm breath behind his ear, and flexes his neck sideways to meet it.

       “Come out of there now. Come back to me.”

He doesn’t want it to, but his voice as he replies sounds dishonest, even to his own ears.

       “I am here. I’m here.”

And then a sudden excruciating pain in his shoulder rips through him. Hannibal’s fingernails are digging deep into the muscle around the old knife wound, and his face is dark with an unreadable expression. Gripping his wrist, Will twists it backwards knowing instinctively what he will do, but is still left breathless when Hannibal twists under his grip and reverses the hold, so his own arm is brought over his throat in a chokehold. The full length of Hannibal’s body presses against him from behind, the muscles of his thighs corded with the effort of holding him prisoner. He speaks again, directly into Will’s ear.

       “ _Now_ you're here.”

He is slightly breathless, and Will can’t help but notice, more than slightly aroused.

       “This isn’t really how I envisaged the evening ending Will.”

       “You envisaged something?” His air supply is being severely limited, but Will finds that he is still being allowed enough to reply. “I thought we were practicing mindfulness these days? Living in the here-and-now.”

He feels Hannibal’s mouth move against the nape of his neck,

       “That’s how I’ve always lived, Will. You know that.”

       “And yet you make plans,” Will shifts, dragging down experimentally on Hannibal’s forearm, but his hold is like iron. He’s not giving in just yet. “You _envisage_ things, you have expectations.”

       “No. I never have expectations. Not from you.”

Hannibal’s chin and then his teeth press into the trapezoid muscle beside his neck, and the sensation is painfully, viscerally delicious. For a moment the arm across his throat is no longer holding him prisoner, it’s just holding him. And then, just as suddenly, it’s gone.

Later, when he has eased his body inch by inch into the scalding water of the cedar wood onsen, Hannibal returns to him. Silently, his friend washes and rinses himself clean beside the bath, as tradition dictates, before entering the water. The onsen tub is small, and although there’s plenty of room for both of them to sit in it without touching, it seems to Will that Hannibal has chosen to sit fractionally further from him than is absolutely necessary. Removing the hot cloth he’s laid over his eyes, he looks across at him questioningly, but Hannibal’s expression is completely opaque, which irritates him.

       “What’s going on with you?”

It’s a rude question, and Will likes the look Hannibal gets when he asks it. Like he could lunge at him right this second and end his life with one graceful and efficient snap of his neck.

       “You ask that way and you genuinely expect a cognisant answer from me?”

       “Oh _please_.” Will rolls his head back on his neck, bouncing it off the wood in exasperation, “Aren't we past all this bullshit? Aren’t we over protecting each other’s delicate sensibilities for the sake of…what? Etiquette? Habit?”

Balling up the washcloth, Will pulls his arm back and throws it at him, and then the wave of boiling water thrown by Hannibal’s pounce almost blinds him. Hannibal’s thighs land either side of his own, his knees pinning Will’s arms to the sides of the bath, and both his hands encircle his throat. The pressure he applies is perfectly calibrated to both threaten and caress, and - carefully and with what he imagines is obvious deliberation - Will forces himself to relax. Hannibal’s eyes are inches from his own, and suddenly he feels the need to ask him the same question again, although this time he genuinely wants to know the answer.

       “What _is_ going on with you? What is it really?”

Will raises his chin, flexing his neck muscles provocatively against the hold. One of Hannibal’s thumbs strokes along his jawbone, and he narrows his eyes at him.

       “Was it the way I looked at the pictures? Did it bother you, me looking at them?”

He swallows at the sudden dark shift in his monster’s expression.

       “I thought you liked me looking at them.”  
  
       “I did.”

       “Then… _what_?”

Hannibal’s lips draw together.

       “I saw you go into the kills with him. I saw you seeing him, knowing him, and wanting to know him. Wanting to know more.” Hannibal’s chin lifts a fraction to match his own, “And then needing to know more.”

       “And that _bothers_ you suddenly?”

Will is frowning now, somewhere deep down he thinks he feels the beginnings of hurt, of what he imagines to be a rejection of who he intrinsically is. He shifts under Hannibal’s weight, trying to better understand.

       “You know me. You know I have no choice about this. Are you seriously asking me if this is something I can just _turn off_ now? For you?”

A small shake of the head, although it seems to Will to be a deeply sad one. Hannibal’s voice sounds sad too.

       “Perhaps I imagined you wouldn't have to. I imagined we would be safe here. At least for a while.”

       “Safe from what Hannibal?” Will’s eyes open wide, incredulous, “From monsters? We _are_ the monsters remember? We both brought one here with us.”

There’s such a pained tenderness in his face now, that Will can’t quite believe it. He suddenly badly wants to kiss him, to comfort him, but Hannibal’s fingers are still locked over his windpipe and he can’t quite close the distance between them. So he leans against them, until he has to either give in to him a little or choke him.

       “Tell me you want me not to look. Tell me you want me never to look again, and I’ll call them tomorrow and say I can’t do it, that I can’t help them…”

       “But you want to.”

       “ _Tell me not to, and I won’t_.”

Hannibal dips his head and rolls his cheek against his. The stubble on their two faces grates like sandpaper.

       “I would never ask that of you Will. I would never ask you to defy your nature. Any more than you would ask me.”

Something unspeakably tight is unwinding inside him now - a slow, sensuous uncoiling - and Will feels himself going limp under Hannibal’s caresses. The weight of the other man’s body no longer imprisons him, only rests on him with a quiet, heavy insistence. The hands that encircled his throat slide down to his shoulders, then back to his face, his temples, before being replaced by Hannibal’s lips, and he has the sudden strange sensation that he is being worshipped, prayed over like some kind of graven idol.

       “I would never change you. I would never want to,“ Will says, and knows as he says it that it is perhaps the truest thing he has ever said. 

 

When he awakes the next morning, Hannibal’s room is empty again. Standing in it in his bare feet, Will runs a hand down the length of his left arm, and then his right, letting his head tick from side to side like the pendulum of a clock. He feels a sudden hot, strong tension across his chest, like a tight metal band, maybe three inches wide, and wonders idly if he’s having a heart attack. He’s still wondering when Hannibal walks back through their front door, carrying a basket full of freshly picked mushrooms.

He knows that the look on his face must betray every fear he’s just processed. Even so, Hannibal doesn’t offer him anything by way of reassurance. Turning on the faucet in the sink, he holds out a knife to him, blade first.

       “I’ll wash if you slice.”

They stand together for some time preparing the mushrooms, in the companionable silence that has become the water that they both swim in now. This sort of activity, preparing food, repairing the house, weeding the garden, Will knows is less a chore than it is a shared meditation for both of them. It’s also the way they always seem to come back into contact after a period of withdrawal from each other. As they work, their actions synchronize along with their purpose and – finally – with their thoughts. Or that’s what Will likes to suppose, and what he’s fairly certain Hannibal supposes too. The mushrooms are finished, laid out to dry on their racks - a delayed feast they can enjoy for weeks, even months to come - and suddenly Will’s chest expands and he smiles. Because no activity Hannibal ever chooses is without meaning for him.

       “In the spring I thought maybe I could try building eel traps,” wiping off the knife, Will sets it back in the rack, “I’ve never made one before, but they don't look that difficult.”

       “Unagi Nigiri,” Hannibal’s face lights up with delight and appreciation, “One of the most underrated of all peasant dishes. I would greatly enjoy preparing some for you.”

Lifting the drying racks into the cupboard above the stove and closing the door, he wipes his hands dry on the front of his apron.

       “Although perhaps we might sample some other variants of unadon tomorrow evening, at dinner? I have it on good authority that there are several excellent Itamae in Aomori city.”

Will’s breath stills in his throat. Resting both hands on the wooden drainer, he lets his chin drop to his chest. For a moment he thinks he might get angry, but then he finds that the emotion does not seem to want to take root, only drifts into his awareness and just as quickly drifts out again. A whole minute passes before he decides how he really feels.

       “We can tell them that that I need complete privacy. Make up some bullshit about being under private contract or something? Tell them my involvement has to be completely undocumented.”

       “All rights to the work you produce are the sole property of UBC. You cannot be seen to be undertaking private consultations, or your tenure might be in jeopardy.”

Will half nods, of course Hannibal would already have worked out all the details. He glances sideways, but his friend’s expression is not decipherable.

       “And what about you?”

Hannibal’s eyebrows lift in mild surprise,

       “It would be easier for everyone if you had a translator present, wouldn't you agree?”

Will draws his bottom lip between his teeth,

       “A discrete presence.”

       “Of course.”

       “Who would only be there to offer language support.”

       “Naturally.”

Looking at him, Will finds that Hannibal’s pleasant, guileless smile is having an unusual effect on his heartrate, and suddenly he finds himself unreasonably and intoxicatingly excited. He supposes that they have both missed this kind of interaction with each other, without even fully understanding that anything was missing. The deep calm between them since they left home, the weighty emotional connection, has been wonderful, but now here they were again, paused at the start of another hunt for another dragon and Will only knows that it feels completely sublime. His breath hitches inwards.

       “Promise me something though. We won't get lost in this. Promise me we’re coming back here.”

Hannibal’s eyes soften, and his brows draw together, “I promise.”

The air between them feels supercharged, sparkling with electricity. Giving his head a small shake to clear it, Will reaches for Hannibal’s wrist and circles it with his forefinger and thumb, before tracing the raised bone of the ulna that is so like his own.

       “Shall we go for a walk?” he says, “I think I need to walk now.”

Hannibal’s fingers curl through his for the briefest of moments.

       “I’d like that too,” he says.

 

It’s not long after dawn the following day when they head down the mountainside. The dim grey light is just enough for Will to be able to see the lock as he turns the key in the door, and as he does so he thinks of all the other locks and all the other doors that he will never see again; the cabin on Moosehead Lake, his little house in Wolf Trap. A sudden tightness in his chest reminds him to check himself, check his natural pessimism and the seemingly constant darkness of his imagination. This door does not have to be the same as the others. This is not a door he cannot return to or open again. This is a door to the life that he and Hannibal have made for themselves, and he will not easily relinquish it.

He turns and Hannibal is standing waiting for him at the top of the trail, and the light bag slung on his back lifts Will’s mood a little. He knows that the bag contains only two changes of clothes, a book he is in the middle of reading, and two bento boxes hand-prepared for their journey. Hannibal has made him a promise, and it is one that he has every intention of keeping.

As they start down the trail it seems to him that, yet again, his friend has heard every thought that has passed through his head and is now simply replying to them as if he has spoken them out loud.

       “This may be a hunt Will, but the purpose of the hunt is not the hunting. Hunters return from the hunt to feast and celebrate. They drink hot saké in hot onsen and regale each other with the tales of their adventures,” he smiles, “And they live to hunt another day.” 

       “So the purpose of a hunt is to provide a reason for celebration?” 

       “A reason for life. And the fuel for life.”

       “The kill?” 

       The kill provides sustenance, but the fuel comes from somewhere else.”

       “From the willingness to die.”

       “And the willingness to be death.”

Their steps have synchronized, and their feet move through the piles of red and orange leaves on the trail with a schirring sound that seems to be the only one to be heard for miles. In the valley below, a few cows are moving through a clearing in the woods, making their way towards the distant farm sheds with milk-heavy progress.

A few fields distant there are lights in the windows of the first houses in the village, parents readying their children for the journey to school, packing lunches, making breakfasts, and reaching above his head, Will plucks one of the last pure scarlet Acer leaves from a branch and folds it into the breast pocket of his jacket. The act of doing so feels like a promise to return that he makes to himself.


	4. Journey

# 旅

[journey]

 

Shortly after arriving in Japan, Will Graham decided something almost immediately. Although he didn't believe he could ever become fluent in such an alien-sounding language, he genuinely loved the sound of Japanese being spoken. He imagines that it has something to do with the lyrical, percussive quality being like woodland birdsong; the soft, abrupt ‘chi’ sounds and ‘esu’ endings like the calls of cardinals and rock pigeons, the low-pitched exclamations like red wing pheasants. Stood in a crowded marketplace the first evening they arrived in Tokyo, he surprised himself with how little the noise of the crowd around them bothered him. Something to do with being in a kind of language bubble, he supposed, untroubled by the expressed thoughts and feelings of the people around him. Curiosity soon got the better of him however, and he found he had to ask Hannibal the meaning of one particular word he heard repeated wherever they went.

       “Sumimasen? This is the first word anyone needs to learn in Japan.”

Seated in a cab headed for the central station, Hannibal’s eyes had reflected the multi-colored neon all around them.

       “And it means what?

       “’ _Excuse me_ ’.”

       "But they say it everywhere. For everything!”

       “Maybe because they are profoundly sorry for everything we must all endure.”

In another cab now, in another city months later, Will considers that perhaps Japan was and has always been Hannibal’s true spiritual home. For a man who so abhors rudeness, and who so prizes balance, symmetry and beauty, this reserved, self-contained country is the balm he imagines both of them needed after the events of the last year, after all the wounds they had dealt each other. Half a year and thousands of miles from the bluff where Will had almost cost them both their lives, he can’t help but feel profoundly grateful for their survival. Hannibal has never asked him why he did what he did, and he’s grateful for that too. Trying to put into words the impossibly blurred feelings of elation, inevitability and despair he had felt that night they killed the Dragon together seemed both pointless and crass. Hannibal had understood them all after all. He had allowed himself to be taken willingly. Glancing over at him, Will studies the angles of his face. He has aged so little in the time that he has known him, while he himself feels decades, centuries older, covered in scars and marked by all their experiences. And yet, he considers, the opposite might also be said to be true. He also feels regenerated by them.

Hannibal speaks a couple of words to their driver, who nods abruptly in reply.

       “This is our destination on the right I believe,” he says and Will leans over to see.

The modest inn they are pulling up in front of is not entirely what he is expecting, and he casts a look at Hannibal to define his thinking.

       “Two academics living on a stipend can hardly be expected to live the high life.”

Will grimaces,

       “Does it at least have an onsen?”

       “But of course,” shouldering his bag, Hannibal gives him a look that can only be described as one of playful admonition, “We may be poor academics, but we’re not animals Professor Phillips.”

The room is simple but elegant, like so much of Japan, and after they’ve both showered and enjoyed a leisurely but superb dinner of soft-shell crab tempura, Will makes the call he has been alternately dreading and eagerly anticipating. Calling Inspector Nakamori on the direct number he left them at the cabin, he’s in the middle of explaining that he and his colleague Mr. Falques are now in Aomori city, when he realizes that the elderly Inspector seems somewhat flustered and upset.

       “Maybe…are you in your hotel now Mr. Phillips? May I bring someone to you?”

Will glances at Hannibal, “It’s late Inspector. Can I ask who?”

       “My assistant, Kaneshiro. It was his suggestion in fact that I make contact with you, and I know he is eager to make your acquaintance,” the Inspector clears his throat, and Will’s impression is one of barely masked embarrassment, “Kaneshiro has a theory which I believe he…desires your opinion on.”

       “Who exactly is James Phillips?” Will has to ask Hannibal when he hangs up the phone. A low-level feeling of anxiety is moving inside him now, like bugs crawling under a dead log, and he suddenly finds he needs reassurance that they are not about to be unceremoniously exposed. But as usual, Hannibal seems uninterested in reassuring him, preferring instead to watch Will spin out a little.

       “An old dinner guest perhaps?”

Hannibal tilts his head to one side. He is finishing the tempura and seems loathe to be disturbed by such a prosaic line of conversation. “Not so old.”

       “A friend?”

       “Not so friendly either.”

       “Hannibal...”

       “ _Sebastian_.”

       “Sebastian,” he sighs, “Are we really going to spend the whole of the next hour roleplaying academics?“  
  
Pulling back the curtain, Will looks down at the street and asks himself for maybe the fourth time that day what on earth they’re doing here. Back in a large city, surrounded by televisions and newsstands and any number of tourists who might have travelled to the US in the last year, and seen one or either of their pictures somewhere. Clean-shaven, with longer hair and no glasses, he’s fairly sure no-one would give him a second look, but Hannibal was another matter entirely. Will wasn’t entirely sure how much cover the story of ‘Hannibal The Cannibal’ had gotten in Japan, or how many copies of Frederick’s tawdry book had sold there, but he was willing to bet there were at least a few hundred Tattle Crime subscribers in the north of Japan.

       “We should go home,” he says softly, partly to himself and partly because he badly wants to hear Hannibal say something comforting, but where he turns around the room is empty. Hannibal has left again, noiselessly and without explanation, and Will gives his head a small shake of irritation and sits down on the bed.

The slim manila evidence folder Inspector Nakamori left with them at the cabin is visible inside Hannibal’s unzipped backpack and, drawing it out, Will pulls out the photographs again and lays them out side by side. It’s not the same as being there, nowhere near as powerful a sensation as standing at the feet of the bodies, smelling the wet cold grass and warm flesh and blood, and yet it isn't remotely difficult for him to achieve the mind-state that feels immediately familiar and deeply, disturbingly seductive to him.

Turning the last picture, the girl with the perfectly arranged hair, towards him, he lets his eyes drift over her slowly, studying her like the subject of a painting he is about to make from memory. And then Will closes his eyes _._

 

_I lay her out on the grass._

_She’s already dead and drained of all her blood._

_I took it from her quickly, every last ounce,_

_while was sleeping_

_but her heart was beating_

_so fast,_

_so fast,_

_so fast._

_It’s important she is pale._

_As pale as the moon I lay her out under._

_As pale as the moon I cut in her throat._

 

Will turns the picture sideways and places the detail of the dead girl’s belly alongside at an angle, like he is reading her tarot cards.

 

_I measure her and then I cut open her belly with_

_perfect_

_precision._

_Not one drop of blood can be spilled._

_I place the sample case inside her and I close the door._

_Because I need you to be the one to discover this._

_I need you to open the door_

_and finally see the truth for yourself now._

_No-one else knew what she was._

_Knew what she really was.  
_

_Except._

_For._

_Me._

 

Will opens his eyes again, and frowns with confusion. Something feels different about this monster, something he can’t quite put his finger on. Turning each girl to the side he examines their hair, so perfectly arranged, fanned out to the side like a Barbie doll in a box. A perfect, little Japanese Barbie doll.

 

_Who are you, adult playing with dolls?_

_Playing cruel games with dolls._

_Who is it you need to show your display to?_

_Who needs to know what these girls really were?_

_All the same girl really._

_This girl._

_Who was she?_

_What did only you know she was?_

_And why these particular insects?_

 

A soft knock startles him, until he checks his watch. 45 minutes has elapsed since he called the Inspector, and Hannibal has still not returned from wherever he felt the sudden need to disappear to. Taking a deep breath, Will slides the pictures back into the folder and goes to answer the door.

Outside in the hall, the florid Nakamori looks as if he is at the end of a very long work day. Pale and sweaty, the deep shadows under his eyes tell a story of a man who is nearing retirement, and is completely unprepared for the kind of case that he’s had dropped into his lap.

       “Mr. Phillips. I am so very grateful for you being here. I must thank you so much for helping us with this.”

Behind him a much younger man stands, awkwardly tall and dressed far more casually than Will imagines Japanese policemen are expected to dress. Sticking out his hand at an oddly comedic angle, he moves with far more enthusiasm than seems appropriate for the late hour, and when he speaks his accent is unmistakably North American.

       “Professor Phillips, so good to meet you finally! I have to tell you sir, I so enjoyed reading your monograph!”

His eyes are sharp and clear, and Will feels a chill of unease begin at the base of his spine that he really hopes is baseless. Smiling at him Kaneshiro, tilts his head to one side,  
  
       “I hope you don't think me rude sir, but with the body of work you have behind you, I thought somehow you’d be much older!”

 

∞ 

 

It’s after 1am when Hannibal finally returns, although Will is not asleep. Sat up in bed, in a t-shirt and boxers and on his third tumbler of single malt from the mini bar, his eyes drift only momentarily to the door before they drift back to the TV set that is on now at the foot of the bed. The volume is on low, and the channel he has chosen appears to feature some kind of brightly coloured gameshow where young men dressed as animé characters are smearing each other’s hair with banana cream pie.

Hannibal is wearing a long dark coat that he wasn’t wearing when he left, and the sort of clothes that Will generally associates with classy nightclubs, but he’s fairly sure he won't tell him where he’s been even if he was interested enough to ask. And he isn’t really interested. He is, however, kind of drunk.

       “The assistant kid, Kaneshiro? He’s a big fan of my work.”

Will nods his head slowly. The game show has moved outside now and cows are involved.

       “Big fan. Read all my monographs online. Did you know they were all online?”

Hannibal takes off his coat and carefully lays it over a chair, “I did know that.”

       “He’s been studying moth larvae ever since the first murder in the summer. Then a couple of weeks ago he got convinced that the type of moth that the killer uses is significant for some reason. American moth. Japanese girls. Maybe the killer’s American, or has been in America. Studies moths.” Will shrugs, “Makes sense. He’s a really smart kid. Really smart.”

The third mini bottle of single malt he’s just opened looks finished already, but Will tests it anyway, tipping it experimentally into his glass. Indicating with his head, he points to the fridge, but Hannibal is ignoring his requests.

       “Weirdest thing though. He said he had this idea, and hit up a few forums online, trying to find out who he could talk to about American Moths - sesiidae - and then, out of the blue last week, he got a reply to one of his posts. Imagine his luck! A worldclass expert, a goddamned expert no less, in American moth larvae was living not 50 kilometers away from his very own city. The kid could literally not _believe_ his good, good, _amazingly_ good fortune.”

Hannibal’s face is impressively impassive, and Will can’t help but marvel for a moment in his slightly drunken state, how even after allowing himself to open up so completely to him these last three months Hannibal is still capable of shutting off his emotions when he wants to. Reaching around on the bed for one of the vodkas instead of a whiskey, he finds one half under the pillow and begins to unscrew the top.

       “The ridiculous fucking thing is, I’m not even angry with you…”

       “You sound angry.”

       “I’m _not_ fucking angry.”

The vodka is proving harder to crack than the whiskey, but maybe it’s just the loss of sensation in his fingertips. He doesn’t even like vodka anyway, doesn’t even really want it, and so he barely protests when Hannibal finally steps over and takes it from him. Will sighs.

       “Ok, maybe I am angry. But the thing I’m angry about…it’s not the manipulation…”

Hannibal cocks his head,

       “It’s not?”

       “No.” He looks up at him, and the sensation makes him a whole lot dizzier than he wants to be right now, “You say you love our life, that it’s all you want, we’re all you want, but now here we are again. Not out of any free will or because of any choice we made together, not because fate decreed it. But because _you_ did.”

The gameshow has come to an end, and dissolved into a news show. Turning back to it, Will tries to focus on the screen, but he’s painfully aware of the cramping in his stomach now, the hot, wide tension across his chest, the pain in his heart. From the corner of his eye, he sees Hannibal move his hand towards him, a suggestion of something tender, and he blinks.

       “Don’t. Not right now. Can you…” he can’t look at him, “Just let’s leave it ok. I’ll get over it and we’ll move past it. I just need a moment right now.”

       “Do you want me to go?”

His voice is low and, Will has to believe, pained. He jerks his head involuntarily.

       “No. I don’t want you to go.”

There’s a pause, then “I’m sorry Will.”

       “I’m sorry too.”

The news murmurs on, and he feels his eyes starting to close. The anchor has a serious expression and, although Will can’t understand the captions under the images beside him, he recognizes what it is that’s being shown at a distance, through a huddle of blue lights and crime scene tape. A pale foot in the corner of the field. Another body, another girl, another murder, another fresh crime scene.

       “More girls full of hummingbird moths.”

As he slides sideways on the bed, he has a sudden singular thought that pinballs around the inside of his skull like something that feels important, that he needs to remember: the fact that a hummingbird’s heart beats at around 1260 beats per minute.

       “Moths don't though.”

       “Don't what?”

Hannibal’s voice sounds far off, but Will can feel his weight on the bed beside him, and then the sensation of the quilt being pulled up over him. He burrows his face into the pillow.

       “Have hearts. They have circulatory systems.”

       “They do.”

       “They look like hummingbirds, but they’re not,” he sighs, “They’re bugs.”

       “They are.”

A cool hand strokes his forehead and without caring what it means, he moves against it, allows the fingers to move through his hair. Because it feels good to let him. It feels better than not letting him.

       “Don’t break us Hannibal,” he says. “I don’t think we’ll come back together another time, so don't break us.”  
  
It’s the last thing he says before he passes out.


	5. Hunt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Had a break yesterday. Apparently all I do these days is write this fic or think about writing it. So here's another 3k words of it. With some fairly gratuitous sex thrown in because it's almost Christmas and y'all deserve it.

# 狩

[hunt]

 

Will dreams that he is surrounded by hummingbirds.

He’s standing on a college campus, a warm-colored stone building in the background and it’s summertime. Everywhere college kids are dotted about, making out, splayed on their bellies in the sun, free, but around him the air is thick with birds. He can feel the breeze created by their wings, their tiny needle-like beaks as they scrape against him, touch his throat, his ears, his hair. One comes close to his eye and he feels its tiny sharp tongue, like a watch spring, as it reaches for the moisture in his eye, the corners of his mouth. Their wings are beautiful, iridescent greens, blues and pinks, but they repulse him. The tiny tongue dips again, forcing its way into his mouth, and he jerks backwards, horrified as the rest of them descend on him in a suffocating whirling cloud.

He jerks awake and the piercing sunlight through the hotel curtains is like an assault on his senses. His mouth feels dry and furry and, rolling onto his side, he’s startled to find Hannibal lying alongside him. Although he’s undressed, it doesn’t look like he’s slept at all.

       “Hey,” Will frowns, he glances at his wrist but his watch is missing. “Did I oversleep?”

Hannibal gives his head a small shake.

       “Is it after 8?”

       “It’s 8.30.”

He rubs a rough hand over his face, over the two day’s worth of growth he really needs to shave, and then through his hair which is getting too long to be anything these days other than unruly.

       “Is there coffee?”

       “There’s fresh Green Tea.”

       “Can you order some coffee?”

       “I’ve ordered breakfast.”

       “I don't want breakfast. I want coffee.”

There’s a pause. 

       “You’re still angry with me.”

Will looks at him. Hannibal’s eyes are bright with curiosity and something else, maybe anticipation. Sighing, Will closes his eyes again, rolls back onto his back, rubs at his aching temples.

       “I’m just…I’m tired. Order me some coffee though and maybe I can work up the energy to be angry with you.”

Sliding out of bed, Hannibal goes to the telephone. Somehow between yesterday evening and this morning he’s managed to acquire a pair of silk pajama pants. He orders coffee with one of the few phrases Will knows well, and quietly hangs up the phone. There’s silence for a while and Will opens his eyes again. Hannibal is studying his fingernails.

       “You didn’t ask me where I went.”

       “Shopping I assumed.”

He knows that Hannibal loathes sarcasm, so the tiny irritable movement of his jaw gives Will at least a corner of satisfaction. It doesn’t last nearly long enough though. 

       “Where you went last night, or last week? I think I have a pretty clear idea about the second one, although maybe it’s more complicated than it seems.”

Will frowns,

       “You caught a train into the city, presumably with prior knowledge that a fascinatingly twisted serial killer was in the middle of some kind of spree. Then you figured out exactly whose eager little ear on the investigating team you needed to whisper my name and location into for maximum effect.  Then I’m guessing you spent a couple more days sightseeing - maybe snapped an impolite neck or two for kicks - before you caught a train home and crawled into my bed in the middle of the night, no doubt hoping for an enthusiastic welcome home fuck.”

Hannibal’s face looks dangerously like that of a cat that’s been splashed with water, but Will can’t bring himself to stop. Sitting up on the side of the bed, he reaches over to the nightstand for his watch. 

       “I have the satisfaction of knowing I denied you that at least. The fuck, I mean. I’ve not become entirely predictable just as yet.”

He knows he’s being deliberately hurtful now, but for the first time in a long time he feels just the hint of uncertainty. The knowledge that Hannibal has been less than truthful with him shouldn't come as any great surprise, their entire relationship was founded on obfuscation after all, but Will feels strangely unsettled when he realizes just how complacent he has become of late. How much he has allowed himself to settle into the idea of The Chesapeake Ripper as tame, contented house cat. He doesn't want to look at him again but he does, and is surprised to find Hannibal even less composed than before; the expression of outrage replaced by an emotion that seems oddly out of keeping with his former therapist.

       “Don't tell me I’ve actually managed to hurt your feelings.”

Hannibal’s lip curls a little. His fingertips drag along the surface of the table, tapping softly with what seems like agitation. He’s upset, although at what part of Will’s speech he’s not entirely sure. 

       “That would seem ridiculous of course,” he says, and his voice sounds strained.

       “Not ridiculous, no.”

Will hears his own soften a little, even though he’s still a few thousand miles from forgiveness,

       “Just confusing. I’m confused at what’s going on here Hannibal. What’s the point of all this? If you were so desperate for us to hunt together again, you could have just said so.”

He stops, searching his face for some indication that he has been heard.

       “I thought we were done with these kind of games.”

The room bell chimes announcing the arrival of breakfast, and Will glances at the door and then back at Hannibal. It takes him a moment or two to unfreeze, and when he does his movements are uncharacteristically stiff. Giving the young man in the hallway a bow that verges on curt, he takes the tray from him and closes the door again. The smell of the coffee drifts across the room, and Will feels his impatience and irritation giving way to weariness. Stretching one arm out across his chest, he cranes his neck over to his shoulder to try and work the kink out of it sleep has put there.

       “Just pour me some coffee will you? I told Nakamori and the kid we’d be at the station by 10 and I’d like to take a shower first.” 

 

The water is hammering down on the crown of his head like a particularly unforgiving benediction, when he becomes aware that Hannibal is standing just outside the shower door. Pausing in the act of lathering his hair, Will considers ignoring him, but his body is blocking most of the light from the window in the bathroom and it’s impossible to pretend he’s not there.

Opening the door a few inches he meets his eyes. Hannibal’s frame seems impossibly tense, his jaw rigid with emotion. Even so, Will doesn't stop what he’s doing, he lets the water run down over his head, and just waits. Waits for whatever it is Hannibal seems to be finally ready to tell him.

       “The night we killed the Dragon together, I felt something I’d never felt before. Something I didn't believe I would ever feel in my lifetime. A sense of belonging. Of complete unity,” his eyes are bright, filled with the same dark intensity they’d had that evening on the bluff, and his lips move with the ghost of a smile, “You know that because you felt it too. You knew that killing with me was as good as it was ever going to get for you. And like me, the knowledge overwhelmed you.”

Will’s lungs expand. Somehow the tight band has gone, dissolved into nothing, and rubbing his hands over the place it has been, he gives his head a tiny shake.

       “But you were…” he starts to say, and Hannibal interrupts him. Pushing the silk pajama pants down over his hip bones, he steps out of them and steps inside. His body crowds Will backwards in the small space as he closes the door, and the younger man lifts his hands in surprise, already feeling like maybe he’s losing control of this conversation. Hannibal's body is a solid wall pressing into him, his skin impossibly hot, and acutely conscious of the scant distance between them Will draws in a deep steadying breath,

       “Hannibal…look...”  
  
       “Imagine spending your whole life believing you were alone. That you were meant to be alone. The sole member of a unique species, destined to always feel remote from everyone around you, people you can't help but see as…” 

       “As prey?”

He’s almost trying to provoke him despite all good sense - not everyone is prey to Hannibal after all - but there’s some truth to his jab and the older man acknowledges it with a slight tilt of his head.

       “Sometimes. Certainly inferior. As creatures I could understand, could even empathize with, but couldn’t truly bond with.”

       “An evolutionary offshoot from the human race.”

       “But one that’s necessary perhaps. If everything is to be kept in balance.”

It’s something Will himself has thought, maybe even used to justify his own inability to remove Hannibal from the world, and yet he still resists the idea. Reaching a tentative hand towards him, he strokes down the muscled curve of Hannibal’s shoulder,

       “You’re not a new species Hannibal, you’re not even a new stage of evolution. Your kind has been around for as long as mankind has. You’re a monster, but you're a monster that we created. It’s why people find you so fascinating, and so hard to accept.”

       “You don’t.”

       “I don’t, because we are the same…” he tilts his head, “And also not the same." 

Hannibal lifts his chin, and his eyes darken a fraction more. Reaching forward, he rests his palms on the tiles either side of Will, his arms forming a cage around him that feels less threatening that it does proprietary. Moving his head in, he slides his jaw along Will’s own again, and the rasp of their beards against each other feels delicious.

       “More the same, than not the same,” and his eyebrows flicker upwards, “Admit it. We fit together Will.”

He can feel himself nodding, although he’s not sure if it’s in agreement with what Hannibal’s said, or just because he’s enjoying this a little too much. Hannibal’s body is inches from his own, the only contact his forearms as they rest lightly against Will’s sides, but the gentle friction of the corded muscles against his skin is beginning a low hum of tension in his loins that feels wonderfully, dangerously alluring.

       “So explain to me why you needed to do this then? If we’re the same, if I….fit you,” he stumbles over the words, because they feel so suggestive of something he’s not ready to suggest yet, “Then why dangle this in front of me, like you want to draw me towards something else.”

Hannibal stills, and Will imagines he can hear his heartbeat again, quiet and regular but potentially treacherous. His mouth dips to Will’s shoulder, and he feels his lower lip paint a slow, deliberate line down the muscle and along to the hollow beneath his clavicle.

       “I need to know if this will be enough for you. And I need you to know too.”

       “ _This_?"

       "Us. I need to know that you pulling us off that cliff wasn’t your way of avoiding what you really are. What we are together now.”

His mouth opens wider, and his teeth skate the skin under Will’s jaw, down over his apple’s apple, over the same place he tore out the Dragon’s throat in a fountain of blood. Will can feel his knees beginning to shake, the erection he’s been pretending isn’t swelling between them becoming impossible to ignore.

       “And what are we… _exactly_ ,” he manages to ask, before the breath is driven from him completely by the sight of Hannibal, eyes dark with passion, sliding down his soaped torso to his knees in front of him.

Fingers splay out around his left hip, the soft, flat pad of Hannibal’s thumb dipping into the hollow of Will’s pelvis to pull him in, to bring him in towards his mouth. His lips close over the head of his cock, and the hand resting on Will’s hip twitches in a tiny paroxysm of delight as he savours him like the dish he’s spent half a decade marinading.

“Unstoppable,” he murmurs before he presses him deep into his throat, and as his climax rushes up and crashes through him it’s all Will can do not to grab handfuls of his hair and pull it out by the roots.

 

∞

 

The police station in Yasukata is unlike any Will had ever seen before or imagined. From the outside the appearance is that of an office block - grey, featureless and devoid of any obvious signs that might give a clue as to its purpose - and confused, he has to ask Hannibal to check with the cab driver that he’s brought them to the right address. 

       “This is definitely it?”

Hannibal gives the tiniest suggestion of a shrug. He’s been almost insouciant since the episode in the shower earlier and, Will can’t shake the impression, even a little smug. It’s hard to hold it against him though, particularly since he feels pretty damned good himself, albeit still in a mild state of shock over what has just transpired between them.

Stepping out of the cab, he’s surprised to see Kaneshiro Fuji hunched smoking with several other young men in the doorway of the station, apparently waiting for their arrival. Although he had told Nakamori that they would be there at 10, he hadn’t expected their visit be so eagerly anticipated. They were, after all, just there to talk about moths.

       “Mr. Fuji…”

       “Kaneshiro please. Kané. My father is Mr. Fuji.”

       Kaneshiro‘s bright intelligent eyes drift from Will to Hannibal with barely concealed curiosity, before he gives a tiny start of recognition.

       “Oh of course, Mr. Falques! Nakamori-san said Professor Phillips was bringing his own translator, but as I’m sure you’ve guessed I can easily fill that role.”

Graciously, Hannibal lowers his head, “I can hear that. But I’m sure you won't be too concerned if I tag along, just for now. I like to think of myself as more than a mere translator to James.”  


Fuji flushes slightly, and gives a small deferential bow.

       “Your English is exceptional though Mr. Fuji. You studied in the US? In New York I imagine.”

Apparently forgiven for his rudeness, Kaneshiro’s face splits in a grateful grin, “At NYU, yes! How could you tell?”

       “Sebastian has a _fantastic_ ear for accents!” Heading off what he was sure would be one of Hannibal’s perfectly explanations, Will smiles, “Could we maybe go inside now? I’d really like to take a closer look at one of those sample cases.”

 

The bowels of the station are nowhere near as well kept as the rest of the place, even so Will can’t help but compare the meticulously labelled and catalogued evidence drawers with those of the homicide department he’d cut his teeth in back in New Orleans. Pulling a long box out of one of the filing cabinets, Fuji lays it on a long table between them and carefully removes the lid. Inside are three seemingly identical specimen cases, each containing four specimens of the Hummingbird Clearwing Moth’s developmental stages. Slipping on the latex gloves Kaneshiro passes him, Will finds he can barely contain his eagerness as he reaches for the first one.

       “The specimen cases are antique.”

Kaneshiro nods, “Yes, that was my first dead end. They’re cedar wood, made in the late 1920s in Germany and in common use in many academic circles at the time and later. Thousands sold all over the world to hundreds of collectors, no way to know where these originated or what their original use was.”

       “And the lining?”

He nods again, 

       “Yeah. That’s been added. I’ve identified the fabric, but again it’s a hugely popular type of linen, sold all over the world. There’s no batch number on the edging and, as you might guess, not a single finger print on any of it, not the wood, the fabric, the glass, not even the bugs.”

       “And how about the Sesiidae themselves? Have you figured out their origin?”

The young man gives his head a frustrated but energetic shake, 

       “That’s been one of the toughest challenges. We know they were home-grown. The first box, the bugs were sent out for spectral analysis, and they came back showing the adult moth had been fed exclusively on hibiscus nectar. I spoke to every lab here, in the US and Canada, places that breed moths and butterflies for research, and none of them feed the moths exclusively on just one flower, and not one of them on hibiscus,” he shrugs, “Way too pricey apparently.”

       “How about the caterpillar?”  
  
       “Cherrywood. Common kind, no way to figure out where from. I did wonder if you might have some thoughts on the choice of life stage though Professor Phillips, could you tell me for example how many days into the larval stage this first sample might be?”

Behind him, Will has a sense that Hannibal has been hanging back from the table, possibly trying to appear as if he has little or no interest, but he knows from experience that nothing Kaneshiro has said will not have been noted, critically questioned and filed for future reference. As if sensing his thoughts, his friend clears his throat, reaching forward to place a casual hand at the base of his neck.

       “What was the observation you made last night, James. As you were falling asleep I mean? Did you mention circulatory systems?”

Will knows of course that it has to be a deliberate move to let Fuji know they’re sharing a bed, nothing that Hannibal ever does is not deliberate, but for a moment or two he’s lost as to why he felt the need to mention it. Then he sees the young man’s face and understands. Kaneshiro looks flustered suddenly, his sharp focus lost for a moment. It doesn't last long, but it’s long enough to allow Hannibal to slide one of the evidence folders that Fuji has left on the bench beside the boxes under the front of his vest.

       “I was talking about hummingbirds. It occurred to me that the choice of Hummingbird Moth might be important for some reason. They’re considered to be mimics after all. Maybe the killer is making a statement about authenticity?”

Having overcome his blushes, Fuji looks delighted at his words.  


       “My exact thoughts too! And the fact that all the victims are young college girls? All active on social media, it makes sense to me. There’s a specific mindset at work here,” he frowns, “Someone is very angry with how these girls are presenting themselves to the world. Someone who was perhaps not so happy at college themselves…”

       “Or someone who resented someone who was…”

       “My goodness! Presenting yourself as a hummingbird, when really you’re just a creepy crawly? Gentlemen, I have to say, I am so very impressed at how elegantly your minds work!” 

Hannibal’s overly cheerful interjection surprises Will, until he remembers exactly what his own role is supposed to be here. He mustn’t be seen to have anything other than an entomologist’s interest and knowledge. Finding and dispatching a brilliant, well organized killer before the police gets to them is going to be hard enough, without giving them any extra help that might speed their investigation along. Reaching for Hannibal’s hand, Will gives him the kind of smile he imagines an indulgent parent does when their child says something delightful, and with only the barest glance at Fuji, kisses his knuckles. 

       “You’ll have to forgive my partner's rudeness, Kané.Sebastian doesn’t get out a great deal these days.”


	6. Apologies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the downtime. I'll try not to leave it so long between updates next time.

# 謝罪

[apologies]

 

       “How come you’ve never asked me about my mother?”  
  
Questions like these always seem to come to Will when he’s across the dining table from Hannibal, and for a while now he’s found it easier just to verbalize them instead of wondering why he wants to ask. If he does wonder about it, he supposes that it’s because he no longer wants to carefully select his words in the way he used to, hiding his thinking defensively. Almost killing them both seemed to have cured him of the need to conceal parts of himself, and occasionally he lets himself believe Hannibal might feel the same way.

       “What would you like me to have asked?”

Seated in the darkened interior of the yakitori restaurant, chopsticks paused in mid-air, Hannibal looks his normal calm and carefree self. And why wouldn’t he, the yakitori is excellent, the establishment is quiet and spotless, the staff are almost invisible, and so far today, he has gotten everything he wanted. Will shrugs, moving his food around on the plate.  
  
       “Oh, I don't know. The kinds of things therapists usually ask. How old was I when she left. Do I remember her face. Was I breastfed.”

       “That’s not a question I would need to ask you, Will.”

Dipping his gyutan in sauce, Hannibal transfers it to his mouth with the kind of sensual grace he reserves only for eagerly anticipated food. His eyes close momentarily, before flickering open again to focus on Will’s.

       “Would you like to talk about her now?”

Giving his head a small shake of irritation, Will frowns, “No, not especially.”

       “Then perhaps this is not a conversation about your therapy, but about our relationship?”

Hannibal pauses in his eating again, his eyebrows raised slightly in a question mark, and Will feels his skin flush with warmth.  The area on the nape of his neck where Hannibal had laid his hand earlier feels especially hot, and with a stir of surprise he realizes he’d enjoyed the sight of Kaneshiro’s face as their connection had been made clear to him.

       “Maybe. I suppose I’m curious about your life, your early life, and sometimes I wonder why you’re not more curious about mine.”

Hannibal frowns slightly, but it’s not a frown of annoyance. It’s the sort of frown that normally tells Will that he’s being considered obtuse. Taking a toriniku from the platter in front of them, the other man carefully bastes it in sauce, tapping it on the side of his dish delicately before transferring it to his mouth.

       “Will, ever since the first day I met you, I have had every intention of learning everything there is to know about you,” his eyes rest on him for a moment, “I take my time for the same reason I take my time to eat this meal, or drink a glass of wine.”

       “You’re…savouring me.”

       “I had imagined we were savouring each other,” his brows draw together slightly, “Has that changed?”

Will draws in a slow breath. Even after knowing him for as long as he has, he can never entirely adjust himself to the way Hannibal finds his way through his questions to the one he really wants an answer to.

       “That’s what I‘m trying to understand. Ever since we came here, I’ve felt better than I ever have in my entire life. Calmer, clearer, like I remember feeling back when I was a kid, before everything started changing. I feel like…things are balanced for me for the first time, and it’s been a hard thing to admit to myself.”

       “That you’re happy?”

It sounds ridiculously simplistic when Hannibal says it, but Will gives a small nod of recognition.

       “That I could be happy, and that it could last. That I could have something just for myself that didn’t break, or die, or disappear. Solid ground isn’t something I’m used to Hannibal. Or structure, routine, people I can rely on, it’s why I had the dogs. I know you know this, and I know you know this is a first for me, in so many ways.”

Hannibal’s expression clouds a little. He lays down his chopsticks.

       “Will…”

       “No, don’t. Please don't tell me you're sorry again. And please don't waste both our time by suggesting this will be last time you manoeuvre me for selfish reasons. That would be…disappointing.” Will lifts his chin, and regards him steadily. “I accept your reasons for doing what you did, but I need you to know that you’ve damaged something that was important to me, and that I expect you to make up for it.”

There is silence now between them, and Will imagines he can see Hannibal carefully considering what he has said. As he had noted months before, it was rare that any expression of regret or uncertainty crossed his face, so when it did so – even fleetingly as now – the sight was a remarkable one. Will had heard Hannibal apologize with seeming sincerity many times throughout the years he had known him, but as far as he could remember he had never before seen him look genuinely sorry.

Laying both hands palms down on the table, he straightens in his seat.

       “I read about the killings in July, when we were in Canada. I found the description of the victims intriguing, and was certain you would feel the same. That you would be compelled to discover more.”  
  
       “So you brought us all the way to Japan _to test a theory_? How did you know they wouldn't find him before we got here?”  
  
       “That was a possibility of course. But from everything I could ascertain, the Aomori investigative team was not the most talented in the world. I doubt young Kaneshiro would even have thought to pursue the avenue of enquiry he did, had I not suggested the idea that the species rather than the genus of moth might be significant.”

       “You were drip feeding him ideas? Through the forum he mentioned?”

Will frowns, and even as he sees the puzzle pieces drop into place, he marvels at the planning behind them, how Hannibal always seems to be three steps ahead of every other player.

       “You chose James Phillips’ identity for me because his knowledge would mean he was the perfect source,” he swallows, his throat suddenly dry. Not sure he wants to know the answer to the question, he asks it anyway. “Did you kill him for it?”

Hannibal’s shoulders move a fraction, it’s not quite a shrug.

       “Professor Phillips taught a patient of mine, a young woman who I helped process a series of severe traumas she had suffered during her sophomore year at UBC. Her subsequent development under my guidance was most gratifying, although I am fairly sure the professor did not approve of the recommended course of treatment. Or so Rebecca informed me.”

Letting out a breath, Will finds his shoulders have become unbearably tense.

       “When you came back after you’d been away you said you’d tried to leave, but that you couldn’t,” he closes his eyes, remembering for a moment the conversation that had followed, the kiss, his admission. “Was that a lie?”

Hannibal’s fingers slide fractionally along the surface of the table, towards him and then back.

       “No. That wasn’t a lie.”

       “You came here to Aomori, to put your plan into action…and what?”  
  
The almond-shaped hazel eyes met his,

       “And I questioned myself.  I asked myself why I would change what we had. Why I would need to test it.”

       “And yet you did it anyway. Why?”

Hannibal’s gaze becomes a little unsteady for a moment,

       “I don't know.”

Will pins him with his eyes, feeling as he does so that he’s close to something he can’t see yet. Close to admission of something Hannibal still isn't ready to express.  
  
       “I think you do know, you just don’t want to admit it. I think you realized for the first time in your life that you’d allowed yourself to really need someone else, and it scared the crap out of you. You couldn’t help but try and fuck it up.”

He has never seen Hannibal look this exposed before, and as he sits across from him he is reminded of Bedelia’s description of his person-suit, through which one was very lucky – or unlucky - to occasionally glimpse the real creature inside. Will had never particularly liked the metaphor, but at this moment he is fairly sure Bedelia would describe Hannibal’s person-suit as ‘fully unbuttoned’. Curiously, he wonders what an entirely armour-less Hannibal would look like, minus all control, and the idea is both terrifying and strangely magnetic.

Breaking the silence between them, Will leans forward, his voice soft but insistent.

       “I need you to understand something Hannibal. It’s not an easy thing for me to trust you, but I do it because it’s the only way I can be with you. And I want to be with you. I’ve tried being without you, and I’ve tried killing you and neither of them seem to work.”

A ghost of a smile touches the other man’s lips, and for the first time since he’s known him Hannibal reaches for his hand for no other apparent reason than to touch him. His fingers slide over Will’s palm, around the joint of his thumb, before tracing the circumference of his wrist.

       “What would you have me do, Will? To make amends.” Drawing his index finger along the length of his artery, he presses the pad of his thumb gently against the skin, taking his pulse, “Tell me and I’ll do it.”

       “Just do what we came here to do. Hunt with me. Find our monster together, kill him together. And then go home.”

       “And celebrate?”

Picking up his beaker from the table, Will holds it out towards him, and after a moment or two Hannibal lifts his own.

       “To drinking hot saké in hot onsens,” and together, they drink.

  

∞

 

Later, back in their room at the inn, Will spreads the contents of Kaneshiro’s case file out on the bed. Seven detailed profiles of young men - possible suspects that the thorough young detective has identified - are neatly paper-clipped together, along with copies of their fingerprints, photographs and written statements, presumably taken during interviews. Standing at his shoulder, Hannibal casts his eyes over the sea of kanji, and cocks his head to one side.

       “Where would would you like me to start?”

It feels strange to have someone else read information to him that Will would normally absorb with a glance, but after a while he finds that listening to Hannibal’s voice describe each subject while he listens is surprisingly effective. He wonders if this is because he often hears his voice inside his head anyway, as a counterpoint to his thinking, so hearing it out loud feels entirely usual, even soothing.

       “Stop there. Go back. What did it say under family?”

Pausing in his translation, Hannibal glances at him.  
  
       “His parents' details are blank,” skimming down through the document, he raises his eyebrows, “Both parents passed away in an accident when he was thirteen.”

       “Does it say what kind of accident?”

Hannibal glances through the rest of the document and shakes his head, “No. But as we know the year we could probably find the details easily.”

Handing him the young man’s photograph, his eyes focus on him with curiosity.

       “What is it about the loss of his parents that intrigues you?”

The picture is of a good looking, but fairly generic twenty-something ‘wakamono’, with short neatly groomed hair and glasses. His expression, as one might expect given the circumstances under which the photo was taken, looks a little anxious, but not remarkably so. Studying his face, Will finds that he feels no special emotion, and yet something that has been squatting silently in his subconscious since his dream is suddenly alive and moving again.

       “Other stuff. Why is he on Kaneshiro’s list?”

Hannibal moves through the attached sheets slowly.

       “He fits his profile. He’s the right age, lives within 25 kilometers of all of the murders. Studied entomology from 2014-2016, with a specific interest in lepidopterans…”

       “Does he have a connection to the US? Where did he study?

       “Here in Nagoya.”

       “What about a police record?”

       “Nothing of note. He was fined in 2016 for riding as a passenger with an intoxicated driver. He paid the fine like a good citizen.”  
  
       “Who was the driver?”

Hannibal reads on for a few lines, and then checks his watch. “It doesn’t say, but if you want to ask him he’ll be starting his shift at a bar ten blocks from here in around an hour.”

Will winces,

       “A bar? On a Friday evening?”

       “You’re concerned about us being recognized?”

       “I’m concerned about _you_ being recognized,“ casting a sideways look at Hannibal’s cream three-piece, he frowns, “I know the term 'inconspicuous' is an anathema to you, but maybe you have something else you could wear?”

Raising his eyebrows, Hannibal turns to regard himself in the mirror. It’s abundantly clear that he approves of what he sees.

       “I have a hat?”  

Will sighs,

       “How about a sweater?

       “I’d have to change these pants.”

       “I can wait.”

∞

 

He needn’t have worried of course. The bar in which Kenji Ozu works is as dimly lit as the yakitori restaurant they’d eaten lunch in, and despite being relatively busy with groups of noisy salarymen, was sectioned into booths in such a way that they were almost hidden from the other clientele once they were seated. Ordering himself a beer, Will scouts the interior as casually as possible while waiting for Hannibal to rejoin him from the restroom. The two young men behind the bar are both around the right age to be Ozu, but studying their profiles surreptitiously he’s fairly certain neither one is. Taking the young man’s photo from his pocket again, he refreshes his memory of his face. 

Sliding into the booth opposite, Hannibal takes the picture from him.

       “I believe our young botanist has just clocked in.”

Ozu is taller than he’d imagined, and looks broader and more muscular, not that the Hummingbird killer needed particular strength. All five of his victims had been roofied via a soft drink, before being slowly extinguished as a result of blood loss. It wasn’t the sort of crime that you needed to train physically for, in fact if Will’s instinct is right the killer is someone who prefers not to exert physical power over women.

Taking a book form his bag, he waits for the young man to start making his rounds of his customers, before opening it and laying it open on the surface in front of him. The volume – a book he’d been reading at the cabin about native Japanese insects – is just gaudy and obvious enough to catch Ozu’s eye as he pauses at their table.

       “You are reading this? You’re interested in Japan’s insects?”

He speaks English with fluency, although Will thinks some typically Japanese shyness. 

       “I am. Very much.”

       “You are American?”

       “Canadian. Although my friend here is German.”

Hannibal speaks a few polite words of Japanese which is greeted by great delight, as it so often is.

       “I am a student of insects! It is my great…passion,” smiling with pride at remembering the correct word, Ozu looks positively overjoyed to have found a fellow entomophile. “Particularly…moths and butterflies!”

Watching him speak, Will is aware that the Geiger-counter-like crackle that he normally associates with his intuition seems strangely silent, and glancing at Hannibal he sees that he too seems only mildly interested in Ozu.The young man’s expression is animated, his eyes bright and sincere as he talks, and Will is instantly certain that he is no more a killer than Frederick Chilton had been. 

Seeming to sense his decision, Hannibal gently interrupts him,

       “I see you have a rather nice chianti on your wine list. I was wondering if I could have a glass?”

Flushing with embarrassment, Ozu apologizes and hurries away to get his drink.

       “That was rude,” Will says softly.

Hannibal gives him a thin smile, 

       “A little. Am I correct in guessing though that you no longer suspect him of being our killer?”

Giving his head a small shake, Will takes a gulp of his beer. 

       “No, and neither do you.”  
  
       “What made you think I did?”

Will glowers at him. He isn’t sure if Hannibal is being deliberately irritating, or just that his resistance is particularly low that day. Ever since the other man had gotten into the shower with him this morning, he’d had the sense that Hannibal was enjoying himself just a little too much. The memory of how that particular episode had ended dips back into his consciousness momentarily, and he suddenly feels inexplicably pissy.

       “You were the one who suggested we come here,” he tries to keep the annoyance from his voice, “You didn’t offer an opinion when I singled him out.”  
  
       “Because I didn’t have one.”

       “Well, that would be a positive first. I don't think I’ve ever… ”

A hand moves quickly across the table to cover his own, and Will startles at the sudden contact,

       “Hannibal…!”

       “Your chianti, sir. My apologies.”

Realizing that the movement towards his hand had been a warning, Will flushes with embarrassment. After all his talk about keeping a low profile and protecting him from exposure, he can't believe he has been the one to use Hannibal’s real name in public.

       “Oh! _Hemaris Thysbe_! This is maybe my favourite moth of all!”

Ozu’s delighted outburst takes him by surprise for a moment, until Will registers the reason for his exclamation. In his hand, Kenji Ozu is holding a photograph, one which Will knows for a fact he definitely had not brought with him. The image has been carefully trimmed to remove its context, but even from the reverse side Will can see what Ozu is looking at. Turning his gaze to Hannibal, he stares at him pointedly.

       “I’m sorry. That must have dropped out of my book.”

Hannibal smiles pleasantly,

       “You were probably using it to mark your page, James.”

       “This is a very nice display. Very nice. I have one myself, not as good as this, but just the same kind of case. A birthday present from a fellow lover of moths.”

And there it is, creeping and sparking up his spine with the same insistence that it always did, the same familiar and reliable indicator that his gut instinct had been – as always – at least partially correct.

       “I wonder if you can tell me where he got it from?” Will smiles in what he hopes seems a friendly, casual manner, “I don't own this you see, but I’d very much like to have something similar.”

Ozu frowns, 

       “I can ask. But I imagine she made it herself. She loves making displays. She used to do it for...money when I was in college, but then she got…sick. She may accept a commission from you, although this is definitely not her favourite species. She prefers native Japanese types.”

       “She?” Hannibal’s eyes and voice are suddenly bright with interest, “Your girlfriend?”

Ozu flushes suddenly and deeply and shakes his head. It’s an oddly extreme reaction, even for a shy young man addressing complete strangers.

       “Oh no no, I don't have a girlf…I mean...” 

He shakes his head again, and the electricity that has been crawling Will’s spine jumps and sparks all the way from his spinal column to his head, 

       “She’s my sister. My little sister made it for me.” 


	7. Adversaries

# 敵

[adversaries]

 

When they return to the inn, there is a message waiting for Professor Phillips at the front desk. Like everything in Japan, the tone has been carefully chosen to avoid all suggestion of an accusation, or even stated knowledge. Kaneshiro Fuji called by to inquire whether either one of the gentlemen has possibly found themselves in possession of a file folder. After the meeting earlier today, Mr. Fuji has been unable to locate it and is enquiring whether either gentleman remembers seeing such an item, or whether they may have inadvertently gathered it up amongst their possessions. Mr. Fuji would greatly appreciate any assistance Mr. Phillips or Mr. Faulques can offer him in this matter. 

       “Told you he was a smart kid.”

Will’s mouth is a firm line, the small frown he was already wearing deepening. Darting a look at Hannibal, he finds his expression mild and guileless. His least favourite expression.

       “We’re not killing him.”

Hannibal’s smile widens fractionally, warmly,

       “If you say so Will.”

       “I say so.”

Ascending the stairs to their room behind him, Will folds the note into his pocket. Hannibal has been silent since they left the bar, his initial interest in Ozu’s sister seeming to slowly dissipate as the boy had described her skill in insect preservation. In the end it had been left to Will to close the deal, asking casually for the girl’s contact details with only a suggestion that he might follow up while they were in town. As good a study of human nature as Will was, he could not be sure that – if his sister truly was who they suspected - Ozu was not aware of her nature and was complicit in some way.  The way he spoke of her, nervy and blushing, didn’t speak to a healthy brother/sister relationship, and whatever else was true, he was more than certain that their bond was not an entirely usual one. 

Their room is as they left it, although the green tea bags, coffee pods and towels have been refreshed and opening the mini bar, Will is gratified to see that so has that.

       “I would advise against your drinking anything more before this evening.”

       “Would you now?” bending to select a select a single malt, Will cracks the top, “And why is that? Worried about my losing focus now that the goalposts are shifting?”

Hannibal’s shoulders move fractionally. His expression could be anything, but he suspects it’s hovering somewhere between a mild concern and the overriding curiosity he always feels whenever he anticipates Will being challenged in some way.

       “You’ve never killed a woman before.”

The statement is as bald as it can be, because it goes without saying that no, Will has never killed a woman, but he did for some time pretend that he had. That particular deception, although one that Hannibal has long since forgiven him for, still possesses layers to it that they have never fully explored. Will knows that the wound caused by his faking Freddie Lounds’ murder, with playing Hannibal’s murderous soulmate, had been every bit as painful to him as the ‘smile’ he had left him with, and although Hannibal has never been someone to dredge up the past, he knows that that betrayal left its imprint on him. The memory of that time together, a time when Will lost all sense of the part he was playing and moved willingly into a position at Hannibal’s side, is tainted forever by association.

       “I could have,” Will hears himself say. He closes his eyes for a moment, remembering, “I almost did. There was a moment…” 

A hand descends to rest on his shoulder,

       “Will, now is not the time to be examining old scars. I only meant that there is a world of difference between killing an adversary who outmatches you in size and strength, and one which evolution has taught you it is your duty to protect.”

A raw half laugh escapes from Will’s lips, and he open his eyes to look at Hannibal again.

       “Really? That’s a little ‘old world gentility’ isn’t it? I mean, I may be from the South, but I’m not sure I’ve ever regarded women as creatures in need of my protection,” he swallows, drily, “And you’ve killed women. Plenty of them. I’m fairly sure Beverley wasn’t your physical equal.”

The hand on his shoulder withdraws, and the chill that accompanies the movement is palpable. Looking down at his nails, Hannibal’s lips twist in an expression of distaste.

       “She was not.”

Fingers move to his cuff buttons, a tiny movement of adjustment,

       “She was, however, in my home and an immediate threat to my survival and to my liberty.”

He breathes out, a small weary sound,

       “I regret being the cause of her death. Immensely.”

He knows it’s true, but yet Will can’t help bring the picture to mind for a moment, Beverley’s beautiful dark eyes wide and her long pale neck twisted at an angle in Hannibal’s embrace as the life is squeezed from her. Shaking his head to dispel it, he finds the small bottle of whiskey still clutched in his head, and palms it thoughtfully.

       “What about the others? Cassie Boyle, Marissa Schuur…” he stops short of adding the name he knows they both always hesitate to utter, “What did you tell yourself when you were snapping their necks to make it ok? That you were an equal opportunities serial killer?”

       “The question you should be asking is how will _you_ make it ok.” 

Will snarls, he can’t help himself. It seems as if the whole day has been a series of jarring exchanges, micro-deceptions and emotions rubbed raw by every necessary interaction along the way, every polite deferential bow and averted eye. He finds himself suddenly longing for the solitude of the house in the woods, or in Wolf Trap with only his dogs surrounding him in gentle watchful silence.

       “I can’t deal with this right now,” he says, turning his back on Hannibal. The tiny whiskey bottle sweats in his hand, and with a snap of irritation he sets it down on the nightstand. “I need to be alone. Can you just go…for a while.”

Hannibal is still for a moment, a pale column in the corner of his vision, and Will wavers. Before he can amend the harshness of his tone though, the other man has turned towards to the door.

       “As you wish,” he says softly, and exits, closing the latch soundlessly in his wake.

The room is silent again and a few minutes pass before Will’s thoughts begin to subside. When they do, he finds himself still standing in the same position as before. Back turned tensely towards the door, both hands clenched into tense fists at his sides. Taking a deep breath, he forces himself to relax, pushing the last of the images and emotions to the edge of his awareness. He turns to sit on the bed and removes his shoes and socks, and digs his toes deep into the carpet pile.

 

_Mae Ozu._

_23 years old._

_Lives with her brother._

_Orphaned as a teen._

_Made a living for a while as a translator of academic texts._

_Now has an admin job in a small private karaoke bar._

_Shy. Small. Kind of reclusive._

 

None of the descriptors he can come up with feel right. Maybe the girl makes the displays for someone else, someone male, who manipulates her like the other girls, but somewhere deep inside Will’s head his lizard brain has a latch-hold. Has known right from the first sight of those pictures that this was a different kind of monster to anything he had encountered before. A slight, pale wraith of a monster, who could move between the shadows created by moonlight, who could smile and befriend its victims without provoking any sense of danger. He thinks again of the Barbie-doll-like displays, the perfect hair, the fastidious bloodless wounds. Another girl. Of course it had to be another girl, and curses his stupidity at rejecting something his instinct had practically yelled at him, just because it didn’t fit the narrative.

He thinks about killing her, and he knows he can do it. Knows that Hannibal is wrong about that. Because no, Will had not killed Freddie Lounds, but he had wanted to. For just a moment or two, as he’d stared into her eyes across the ramshackle mess of his barn, into her abject terror of him, he had wanted to very badly. And not because he felt exposed, or because she was ‘a threat to his life and his liberty’. Because she had looked at him the way he had waited to be looked at his whole life. She had looked at him as if she could see him. He wonders if Mae Ozu will be the same. Whether, when he chokes the life out of her as he imagines doing, she will look into his face and recognize him for what he is. See through the orbs of his eyes, his skull, through to the back of his head, and recognize a killer with the same pulsing red certainty that he does.

 

∞

 

Hannibal does not come back. Within an hour or so it starts to get dark, and when his belly starts to rumble Will slides his jacket from the back of a chair, and quietly lets himself out of the room. Taking the stairs, he avoids reception and any possibility of another encounter with the concierge, and slips out of the back of the building into the pungent night. The city backstreets in Japan seem to smell the same everywhere, a unique blend of sweet fry oil, udon and garbage that he knows he will forever associate with it, and inhaling Will feels his senses heighten, his breath and heart-rate quicken. He is alone in a city for the first time since they left the US, and the realization that he has afforded himself the same opportunity for a private adventure as Hannibal did is not lost on him. And then comes the curious frown at the thought, wondering yet again at how a sociable, culturally starved cannibal might have spent those unaccounted for few days.

Turning left at the end of the street he enters another branch of the labyrinthine backstreets, always conveniently dim and lit only with the lanterns that each eating house hangs at the threshold. Drawing the damp, oil-heavy air in through his nostrils, Will smiles wolfishly as his stomach rumbles again. He’d never been an enormous fan of Asian cuisine till he came to Japan, but has recently considered the idea that perhaps Chicken Tonkatsu prepared by a native, whose family have perfected their sauce recipe over several generations, is probably as far from takeout in Baltimore as white wine vinegar is from vintage Chablis.

Will enjoys the way people eat in Japan. He likes the solitude afforded by booths, the lack of chit chat, the absence of fake friendliness that surrounds the ordering and receiving of food. The fact that he doesn’t speak the language, isn’t expected to, offers him an even greater level of privacy. Often he completes the entire process of ordering, receiving and eating a meal with little more than a gesture and an ‘arigato’, and finds that that suits him just fine. Will has never felt American in any more than the most general of senses, and has spent most of his life resenting the kind of attentive customer service associated with his homeland. For totally different reasons, Japan is as good a fit for him as it is for Hannibal, although when he considers the idea of never going home again, never setting foot in his home state, a small part of him drifts into wistful sadness. He wonders if this is the same way Hannibal thinks of Lithuania, and the beautiful witchy woodland and mountains around his family home. If his heart aches for it too.

Perched on a stool in a street-side restaurant, he devours the plate of food placed in front of him with intense relish, his eyes periodically slipping from his meal to study the faces of the people walking past. It’s not that late yet, and the majority of street traffic comes from young people on their way to a night out, weary be-suited young men on their way home from a long day’s work. Then suddenly his attention is caught, riveted, by one of them. The tall ungainly frame of Kaneshiro Fuji, a leather jacket on tonight instead of the hipster corduroy, lopes by the window, his expression more serious than Will has previously seen it. The direction that he’s headed in is away from the inn, and he can’t help but wonder as he slides out from his chair, dropping a tip on the counter, if that’s where he’s just come from.

Two blocks down Kaneshiro is still walking quickly, purposefully, and Will follows him at a distance without even fully knowing why. Despite his insistence that Hannibal was not to hurt him, the idea that the young detective might suspect them of interfering with his investigation laps at the edges of Will’s awareness. They cannot afford to make him suspicious of their motives, because - despite having every faith in Hannibal’s attention to detail - Will is not confident that Professor James Phillips’ cover will hold under close scrutiny. Up ahead, Kaneshiro pauses to glance around him before crossing the street against traffic, and slipping behind a convenient group of teenage girls, Will follows. The area of the city they’re entering seems to be almost entirely comprised of bars and late night pizza places, as well as a scattering of shuttered nightclubs. Could he just be looking for someplace to unwind after a long week, after one too many dead ends? Hanging back, Will sees him slow his walk, taking out his smartphone to check something on the screen, before stepping up and into a building on the left hand side. The neon light spills out onto the sidewalk in a splash of fuchsia pink and, after waiting a few minutes to see if he reappears, Will moves slowly past the entrance and risks a glance inside.

Joyfun Karaoke. It’s the sort of small, quintessentially Japanese chain karaoke bar that seems ubiquitous all over the country. The kind that offers groups of tired businessmen and teens a place to let loose, drunkenly belting out Sinatra and J-Pop to each other in small private rooms, venting their frustrations about their bosses or their boyfriends or school teachers. The fact that Kaneshiro is visiting one on a Friday evening is not remarkable or even particularly out of character for someone of his age and profession, but what does give Will pause, what makes his heartbeat slow to almost a standstill for one or two beats, is the name of the place. The name and, he suddenly realizes, the location.

Joyfun Karaoke, 3 Chome, 8-7 Shinatchi is Mae Ozu’s place of work.

Will’s mind slips quietly in a kind of noiseless oily neutral, and stepping back from the entrance he walks at an unhurried pace on to the end of the block. At the corner a newspaper stand is selling Marlboro Lights, and he buys a pack and a lighter and softly palms one before lighting it up, drawing the smoke deep into his lungs. He stopped smoking years back, has never felt any kind of resurgence of the long-ago craving, but the taste and sensation of lightheadedness is pleasant, and brings on a sudden sense memory of his early cop days.

What are the chances that Kané has chosen this place by accident? Hannibal would say none. That there is no such thing as coincidence.

_“Only circumstance, fate and the illusion of free will.”_

_Will had laughed when he’d told him that, “You don't believe in fate.”_

_“Not in the traditional sense maybe, but that some paths are destined to cross. That some stories are inescapable.”_

_“What stories?”_

_He had teased him a little then. Knowing really what he was referring to, but wanting him to say it, and Hannibal had smiled at him with the kind of soft-eyed fondness that made a flush rise on his throat._

_“All our stories. Your father’s and yours. Mischa’s and mine. Yours and mine.”_

_“And what kind of story are we? A tragedy? Comedy?” he ghosted a smile, “a dark romance?”_

_He remembers how Hannibal’s face had looked then, a cloth in one hand as he dried their dishes in the home they both shared. How his smile had widened as Will waited for his answer._

_“The classic Hero’s Journey of course. We heard the call to adventure, resisted for a time, then fought the demon and brought the prize back from the darkness for our beloved.”_  

The words had hung warm between them, like an embrace, and dragging on his cigarette now, Will feels a sudden guilty pang at telling Hannibal to leave earlier in the way that he had. In the many months they’d spent together, he had learned that despite all appearances to the contrary, his monster did possess feelings and that he – Will – was one of the few people capable of bruising them.

Mounting the step into the building, he grinds out his cigarette on the wall as he pushes open the doors. Inside, the music assails his ears with its bright, treble-heavy volume and pushing his way through a small crowd of teenage girls inside the entrance, he casts his eyes around the place for Kané. The young man’s tall frame was nowhere to be seen, but everywhere the doors to private booths and larger VIP-style rooms opened and closed, revealing groups of people inside. He could be anywhere, maybe joined a group himself or taken a small private room, Will has no way of knowing, and before he can begin a stealthy check he’s blocked by a perky girl with blunt bangs and a brighter-than-bright smile. Her uniform appears to be some kind of variation on a Shirley Temple sailor suit.

       “Hi and welcome to Joyfun Karaoke sir! Are you joining a party tonight or are you here alone?”

The girl’s speaks English with a strong Californian accent like a Mouseketeer, and Will can barely hide his grimace.

       “Uh…alone. At the moment. Thanks,” avoiding her eyes, he gestures to the bar, “Maybe I could just get a drink and…”

       “If you’d like to come this way sir, I’ll take you to one of our solo and small party suites.”

Marching ahead of him with purpose, the girl leads the way through the noisy throng of Friday-night salarymen at the bar, pausing to lift a tray of drinks from the bar as she goes.

       “Your first drink of the evening is complimentary sir! Do you have a preference to the style of suite? Are you meeting work colleagues or friends?”

       “Uh…a bit of both. Maybe.”

Trying to maintain an air of casual boredom, Will’s eyes move to the entrance of each room as they pass it, darting glances through when he can. The place is filling up and seems endless, Kaneshiro could be anywhere by now, maybe he’d even gone directly to the manager to question him about his employee. Unsure at the best course of action, Will glances over his shoulder as the girl stops at the door of the last suite in the corridor.

       “Here we are sir, this is our one of our sapphire level solo small party suites. I hope it’s to your liking!” 

The door swings inwards, and ushered by her small hand Will steps inside. A long white leather sofa curves around the exterior wall, the karaoke screen dominating the room playing a jarringly noisy and colourful video, while the speakers either side blare J-Pop. On the left hand side of the room, a young man lays sprawled out sideways on the couch, his jacket half off his shoulders and mouth yawning open, and confused Will takes a step backwards towards the girl,

       “Uh..Miss? This room seems to already be…” 

Before realizing two things in almost the exact same moment.

Number one: that the young man sprawled out on the couch was Detective Kaneshiro Fuji. Barely conscious, but somehow focusing his eyes on Will’s face with a mute expression of terror. 

And number two, and this one only as he too begins to lose consciousness: that the smiling young girl in the sailor suit beside him had just slipped a hypodermic needle into his neck.


	8. Relatives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _This chapter is a flashback episode to fill in Hannibal's earlier absence from chapter 1, and written from his POV instead of Will's. Apologies if you were expecting an immediate resolution to the cliffhanger at the end of the last chapter, there is method in my madness though I promise!_

# 親族

 [relatives]

 

For as long as he has lived, Hannibal Lecter has rarely questioned any decision he makes. Regret, as his Aunt Murasaki had once told him, is an emotion of use only to fools and poets. Mistakes only become such when they are coupled with regret, a mistake embraced as a friend is transformed in its nature to a future averted misstep. For this reason, on the very rare occasions when Hannibal considers that he has made a mistake, his lifelong habit has been to step towards before he steps away, to glean what valuable lessons he can before exiting the scene. Before the day he found himself finally in possession of the only thing he had ever truly wanted, he had never felt afraid of making one.

Hannibal’s love for Will is not a thing of warmth and comfort, it’s not something that fills him with hope or light, it’s a creature that more often than not thrashes inside him like a tethered animal, seeking purchase for its feet in slick, sliding darkness. That he wants to be with him, to see his face every day, to breathe the same air and share the same table, is something he has been certain of ever since Will first walked into his life all those years before. His presence had given it a vibrancy and purpose he hadn’t even known it lacked until it was added and subtracted, and now Hannibal knows that he can never return to an existence without him. A life without Will would be like a fine meal without wine: incomplete, tasteless and hopelessly off-balance.

In the months since they came to Japan, since they began sharing their lives completely, he has felt the balance shift and settle inside him many times. Watching Will wake every morning, seeing the strength returning to his limbs, the clarity to his eyes, fills him at first with profound relief and then a slowly growing, unfamiliar longing. He finds himself making excuses to touch him, creates activities that will draw him closer to his side, opportunities for their hands to work together. Hannibal is not a shy man, but for him physical contact with a partner has only ever been about achieving his own pleasure. That they receive pleasure too is only good manners of course - he would no more withhold that than he would refuse to pay his wine merchant - but longing to touch, look on, worship the body of another, with no other thought except to prove his devotion? This strange concept begins to come to him surprisingly frequently around Will, and both fascinates and disturbs him.

Often in the evenings, after they’ve talked, bathed, laid together on the roof, there is a moment or two when he feels his whole body still in a kind of silent, frozen questioning that feels increasingly like anxiety. He feels the moment when Will will turn from him like the approach of an inescapable tsunami, specifically the point at which the sea is drawn back from the shore leaving the delicate sea-creatures exposed to the horizon. When Will leaves for his own room, his own bed, he feels a hollow ache that he finally recognizes as something he has heard spoken of, written of and sung of in every beautiful language he has ever read poetry in. Hannibal loves Will, has known and accepted this for many years, what he finds far harder to accept is how badly he now yearns for him.

In the end, it’s a conversation about the Hero’s Journey that breaks his freeze. Will’s gentle teasing about the nature of their story, their ‘dark romance’, uncoils something inside him and he finds himself looking into his face with a sudden stir of surprise. He feels the air between them, warm and heavy with intimacy that has grown over months, and for the first time believes he sees Will stepping, edging towards the same thing he has been. And then, he gently sets his glass down on the kitchen surface between them, and - as he has every night for the last three months - bids him a soft goodnight.

After Will’s door slides closed, Hannibal stands for a long moment or two before quietly pulling his coat from the back of the door and shrugging it on to his shoulders. He doesn't pack a bag, and when he begins to walk, he doesn't even fully know in what direction he is walking. Heading down the mountainside in the dark, the track barely visible in the moonlight, his mind is a roiling blackness shot with red and silver. Every step he takes moves him further away from the only thing he wants on the face of the Earth, and he feels the distance open between them like the widening of a wound. 

Through every moment of his walk, the train journey that follows, the one through the dawn of a sleeping city at the other end, Hannibal experiences the pain of leaving Will as intensely as he has ever experienced any pain. The creature that had thrashed inside him is now loose from its tethers and threatens to unbalance him completely, and reluctantly he is forced to admit that his feelings for Will, once solidly contained by his indomitable psyche, have now outgrown their cage. For the first time in his adult life, Hannibal feel unsafe inside his own mind.

In the past, he might have called Dr. Du Maurier. Ensconced in his beautiful private rooms in the best ryokan in Aomori Provence, he even considers the idea for a short time. It would, of course, be incredibly imprudent, but simply sitting with the way he feels right now - like he is quietly but inevitably unravelling - feels a great deal more dangerous. He sits for some time, listening to the sound of the water running into the stone temizuya at the centre of the ryokan, searching inside himself for the tools that have helped him in the past. Tools given to him by the same person who helped him build the defences that have kept him safe his whole life. And suddenly, with complete clarity, Hannibal realizes exactly whose counsel he must seek.

The last time he laid eyes on his Aunt Murasaki, Hannibal was twenty-one years old. Almost thirty years have passed since that day; a day that he remembers with both warmth and a pang of sadness. Warmth because he had felt his aunt’s deep affection and respect for his whole being, as he always had, but sadness because her message had been one of a final farewell. After many years a widow, his aunt was returning to her native Japan and was to marry a man who wanted nothing to do with the dubious legacy of his family. At the time, Hannibal had felt some confusion over her decision. His aunt had no reason to remarry, his uncle had left her well provided for, and like himself she wanted for no earthly possession. It was only when she spoke of her life since he had left home, of her endless travels and ceaseless wandering, that he realized how lonely she had been.

       “This is not something you will understand,” she had said, and her smile had been both sorrowful and tender, “To know what it is to be loved and to love in return, to allow yourself to root into the ground. I am not like you Hannibal, I cannot be alone. I have to grow roots again, or I will wither and die.”

It had seemed a simple confirmation of something he had suspected his whole life - that he was incapable of loving another in the way that other humans were - but despite feeling she was right, something inside him had twisted painfully at her words. His aunt had helped raise him, known him since he was a boy, and for her to suggest he would never know love was a deep barb that he had borne for many years afterwards.

 

∞

 

The gardens surrounding his aunt’s home in Hokkaido have the same beautiful, tranquil stillness as the woman he has travelled a day, and half a lifetime, to see. Her maidservant, as she shows him into the entrance hall of her great house, does not raise her eyes to his face once in curiosity, even when he tells her his name and his relationship to her mistress. Deep in the bowels of the house, a soft bell is chiming a deep sonorous repeating note, as she moves away from him soundlessly and, left alone to wait, Hannibal already feels lighter. The roiling in his chest feels soothed by the sounds from the house and garden and, he imagines, perhaps merely from proximity to the woman who lives there.

A few minutes pass before the maidservant returns, indicating he follow her, and together they walk through the house. Hannibal’s eyes glide to take in every unique and beautiful object through the open screens on their route, until they come to a stop at last in front of an ornate camphor-wood door, carved with cranes. Kneeling at the threshold, the girl slides it open, and from inside a voice that expands the warmth in his chest bids him enter.

       “Hello, Hannibal.”

Almost thirty years, and it seems to his eyes that she has barely aged. Dressed simply in a dark blue kimono with a subtle pattern of darker blue peonies, Lady Murasaki’s smile is like the moon reflected on a still evening pond. She does not seem in the least surprised to see him and, Hannibal notes, sat alongside her on the tatami is the same ancient tea set that she used every day in his youth, steam gently rising from the pot. Amused and touched, he smiles.

       “You were expecting me?”

       “Always, Hannibal. And never,” his aunt’s dark eyes seem to sparkle with the hint of mischief for a moment, before she moves a gracious hand towards him. “Please, sit.”

She pours the tea, and the scent almost brings tears to Hannibal’s eyes, such is the evocative sense memory of his childhood.

       “White Peony.”

       “Of course.”

The cup is warm and slightly rough in his palm, and a soft tremor passes through him as he is transported forty years backwards in time, to his aunt’s chambers in the home he may never visit again. Lady Murasaki’s hair, still black and glossy as a raven’s wing, is pinned back from her brow with an ornate ebony comb, which Hannibal silently notes is the same sedate decoration she wore in the years after his Uncle Robert’s death.

       “You have been widowed again?”

His aunt, bows her head fractionally in acknowledgement.

       “And you? Are you too alone again?” her gaze meets his, “Have you lost the one you chose to die with?”

A smile touches the corners of Hannibal’s lips. Of course his aunt would know everything. Would know about his life, about Will, about their disappearance together. The most remarkable and resourceful woman he had ever known would never allow a mere ocean and half a continent to keep her from knowing the business of someone she cared for.

       “I have not,” he says.

The tone of his words is careful and her eyebrows lift fractionally, questioning without questioning.

       “But you are afraid that – in time – you might?”

Hannibal frowns, gently he sets his cup back on the tray.

       “I have considered the possibility.”

       “Is it that fear that brings you to me now? Did you think perhaps I can help you find certainty, as I did before?”

Hannibal cannot help but smile at her words, and her unfailing intuition. His aunt’s counsel had been a resource he had come to rely on completely as a young man, all the more precious because she had been the only point of constancy in his life during that period. For some time after his immediate family were gone, he had been a stranger to himself, a confused rage-filled automaton child, unmoored from the world. His aunt’s appearance in his life, her influence, had been the start of his slow acceptance of the creature he became as a result of Mischa’s murder, and he is painfully aware that she – maybe more than any other human being – understands what he is capable of. It is what she believed him incapable of though, that has often preyed on his mind.

       “Do you remember what you said to me the last time you saw me?”

Sat opposite him, his aunt’s back straightens. Passing a hand wearily over her eyes, she looks, suddenly, all of her seventy years of age.

       “I do. Although I am curious to know whether the meaning of my words has been altered by time. Time and the war you’ve waged between then and now.”

Hannibal’s breath stills in his throat. “The war?”  
  
       “The one that began with Mischa and those men. The one you’ve been fighting ever since.”

Lowering her eyelids, his aunt regards him with a small smile,

       “This man of yours. Is he the one who will finally end it? Did you lay down your sword Hannibal, and finally choose to grow roots?”

Her words, echoing the ones she’d spoken to him all those years before, surprise him and sadness enters him suddenly, as he considers how much distance he has put between him and the home he has found with Will. His Will, with his thoughts that reach out and combine so perfectly with his own like musical counterpoint. With all his planning and scheming, he knows he can never be more than a step ahead, so close is Will’s thinking to his own, and yet the game has become such a part of who they are that Hannibal bridles at giving it up. His reasons for bringing them to the Aomori region, to draw Will into another hunt, these were all elements within a scheme he is invested in. And yet, and this he considers carefully, what if the game is no longer useful anymore? 

       “One of the first lessons you ever taught me was to never drop my guard. Who I am, the walls you helped me build have served me well.”

       “Until now.”

Hannibal hesitates, feeling the truth of what she says, “Now…”

       “Now your walls only serve to keep you apart from him.”

His aunt’s whole face is gentle question mark,

       “You’ve been alone inside yourself so long, Hannibal. Would it be such a dangerous thing to let the one you love enter?”

       “It _feels_ dangerous.”

Uneasy, he swallows the admission, and the dark tethered creature twists again inside him.

       “Because you don't trust him?”

       “Because I don’t trust myself.” 

       “You fear change Hannibal. You always have.”

Sliding a hand across the tatami, his aunt lays a cool palm over his,

       “But perhaps you are not so afraid that you cannot change that.”

There is a long silence between them, and outside in the garden Hannibal can hear the sound of birdsong and water. Bathed in warm late afternoon light, he thinks that his aunt has never looked more beautiful or more tranquil. Tilting her head very slightly, she smiles at him as she has in a thousand other memories.

       “Will you stay with me? For dinner at least? You don’t have to leave straight away?” 

       “Of course.”

       “But after dinner…?” 

Her face holds the hint of a plea, but although he badly wants not to deny her, Hannibal shakes his head. 

       “I cannot stay. Not this time.”  
  
       “Back to your love?” 

Hannibal hesitates,

       “Soon. I have some business to take care of first.”

Narrowing her eyes fractionally, his aunt nods, then bends gracefully at the waist to rise. As she walks to the door her gait seems slower and more painful than he had imagined it would and watching her, Hannibal wonders suddenly if this time may be the last time he will see her. At the door to the room, her maidservant stands to support her elbow, and she shakes her off with a trace of irritation. The movement is enough to make her breathless. Turning back to him, she sees everything that he has seen, and sighs.

       “It’s good that you came Hannibal. I had hoped I might see you again before I die.”

       “You could have sent for me.” 

His aunt’s lips flicker with a smile,

       “I knew I wouldn’t need to. I knew as soon as your feet touched this soil that it was only a matter of time before you came.” 

She straightens, and the movement is shot with pain.

       “I had hoped to meet your Patroclus though. I was curious to see for myself the one who finally won your heart.”

Her eyes look deeply into him, as they always have, and Hannibal finds he cannot hold her gaze. Bowing his head, his throat tightens.

       “Will did not have to win my heart. And I fear I may always be struggling to deserve his.”

       “You cannot deserve love Hannibal, and you cannot control it. You can only open your door to it and allow it to do as it wills.”

Giving her head a small shake, his aunt steps away from him through the doorway,

       “I hope after whatever business you need to take care of before you return to him, you remember that.”

 

∞

 

No matter which way he turns to lie on his futon, Hannibal cannot settle to sleep that night. The moon is full and bright outside his window, and after hours of unease he finally abandons the idea of rest. Instead, making himself a cup of green tea, he quietly slides the wooden screen of his room open and steps outside into the private central garden of the ryokan. Drenched in moonlight, the perfect square of moss-covered rocks, conifers and running water are a living Hiroshige print, every edge and curve defined by silver, and drawing his legs up under him, Hannibal sits silently in contemplation of it.

_“This is beautiful.”_

_“Isn’t it?”_

Even though he knows he doesn’t have to any more, Hannibal still hears Will sometimes in his head, converses with him. It’s a habit he finds hard to break. Harder still not to imagine him sitting alongside right now, his familiar profile etched in silver light. 

_“We could have shared this,” a bemused frown, “Why is it we aren’t sharing this again?”_

The desire to justify himself, even to an imaginary version of Will, sends Hannibal picking through his subconscious, searching for the truth.

_“We share so much these days. We eat the same meals, read the same books, listen to the same music. Is it not better to have some experiences apart from each other? We gain so much hearing a scene described through another’s eyes.”_

_“Pardon me for saying so, but that sounds like a lot of bullshit Hannibal. You’re here alone because you got scared and ran. And because part of you is still hanging onto this ridiculous plan of yours.”_

He feels his lips want to smile. Knowing if the real Will were here, he would almost certainly be telling him as much. Taking a sip from his tea, he smiles an affirmation.

_“Perhaps so.”_

He imagines a sigh then, Will’s dark tousled head shaking with familiar expression of impatience.  
  
       “ _Your aunt was right you know. You’re still afraid of letting me in, all the way. You’re playing with us even now. You can’t stop yourself.”_

The self-analysis rankles as he admits it, and even alone he feels his shoulders tighten defensively against it.

 _“It’s who I am. You know that. You’ve always know it.”_

His vision of Will bends and shutters in the moonlight, the voice becoming indistinct, not that it matters. He knows the truth, cold and flat, with a certainty that he feels in his stomach. Doesn't need to hear anyone but himself say the words.

_“Who you are is going to get one of us killed Hannibal.”_


	9. Promises

# 約束

[promises]

 

Will wakes into a darkness where time and place are unknown states. Like the creep of daybreak into a room, sensations slowly register in his brain and he becomes aware of a cool, wet, gritty surface of the ground against his cheek. His face feels melted to the floor, embedded, as if he’s fallen into tar and let it cool and solidify around him. A minute movement of his neck muscles to check if that’s even possible, and then he sends out a weak body scan to his other parts. His ribcage feels tender and bruised, as if he’s been dragged, and his limbs are like lead weights tied to his torso, holding him against the floor as if gravity has somehow been increased. Moving his fingertips, he feels more grit underneath them, under his forearms, damp and rough. The air is cool on his skin, without being cold, and a familiar coppery smell layers over one that he can’t identify, something light, clear and freshly sweet that sits oddly against the blood and darkness.

Like a hard drive slowly rebooting, Will’s brain slides through a series of screens, images, events. He remembers the room at the inn, Hannibal’s face in profile as he turned to leave. The tonkatsu place. Kaneshiro ahead of him on the street, lit with magenta neon. He remembers his cigarette, tastes it on his tongue, and behind it a flat chemical tang that coats the back of his throat like paint. He tries his fingertips again, manages to slide them a few centimeters to the left and right, pressing the palms of his hands into the ground experimentally, before dragging them slowly inwards underneath his shoulders. He pushes down, and the effort seems insane, as if his back is loaded with cement blocks. Sweat breaks out on his neck and rolls down the sides as he pulls his knees in towards his body and pulls himself onto all fours, before pressing himself back onto his haunches. Breathing slow to combat the dizziness, he has to steady himself with both hands flat on the ground before he can raise his head.

He is in a basement. A faint shuttering blue light leeches in from somewhere, like a distant fluorescent tube going bad, and although his head feels like it’s splitting wide open Will manages to turn it a little. The wall to his right has a single glazed panel, tinted, and the light is coming from there. It changes, darkening then lightening at random intervals until he recognizes the pattern: a TV screen or someone watching a movie. Straining his ears for a sound from the room it’s in, he hears only the low hum of electrics somewhere above him, and a faint soft dripping from somewhere else in the darkness. The smell of fresh blood is coppery and pervasive, and as he touches his cheek, his cold, damp clothing, he realizes why. The floor is soaked with it.

He knows without turning what he will see, and for a moment considers not looking, choosing not to add to the vast library of horror his mind has catalogued over the years, but in the end he turns anyway. Kaneshiro Fuji‘s body lies roughly three meters away across the rough dark floor, the startling whiteness of his exposed skin made all the more stark by the night-dark streaks of blood that criss-cross his face. His eyes are open, eyebrows raised in an expression that might be surprise or pain, although the latter seems more likely given that his chest has been split wide at the sternum. To Will’s mind, the wound looks careless, as if whoever made it was less angry than simply bored with whatever Kané had to say and, tilting his head to one side, he finds he can easily imagine the sentiment.

_Time to shut up now detective man._

_Too much to say._

_And too smart for your own good._

Kaneshiro’s gangly legs are thrown out behind him at odd angles, like a puppet whose strings have been unceremoniously cut, and Will find himself wondering if he had any family. A wife. Children. Parents who will weep for him. This intelligent awkward young man who somehow connected the dots almost as quickly as they had. Will closes his eyes and faces front again, tries to take the deep slow breaths he knows he needs to re-oxygenate his muscles. Hannibal had known Mae Ozu’s place of work too, the karaoke bar would probably be the first place he would go to find Will once he realized that he was gone, their logical next post of call. How long it would be before he returned to their room and came to that conclusion though, depended on how long he had judged Will was asking for when he requested time alone. And then, then of course there was the matter of him finding where he was now. Was this the basement of the building the karaoke bar had been in? Searching back through his stuttering, faulty memory, Will remembers it had been on the second floor of five storey building, with a small sashimi restaurant in the basement. If this room was under that one, there was no indication of it, no sound or associated smell that placed it anywhere near.

His thoughts jump, quick and dark like a hunting fox, through what he knows of Mae Ozu’s MO. Her victims had all been girls of roughly her own age, with no location in common, so she hadn’t drugged them at the karaoke bar. Maybe she’d seen them there though, with friends, had stored their image and details away until the visit to the bar was a distant memory, then stalked them, roofied them, and what? She was slight, maybe only 125lbs, there was no way she could lift and move someone her own weight, let alone Will’s, and yet she’d done it. She’d taken them someplace private and cool, somewhere she could safely work on them to produce the vivid masterpieces Nakamori had photographed.

A faint scrape of metal on concrete focuses him on the darkened corner of the room, away from the glazed panel, and Will feels the soft sudden rush of air into the room, carrying with it a stronger gust of the sweet smell he’d detected earlier. Hibiscus flowers. And behind it others: soft rotten vegetation, humidity and a familiar scent that brings mental pictures of the zoo, insect houses full of leafcutter ants. A door has opened and closed, and suddenly Will knows that he is no longer alone.

Silence stretches out for what seems like minutes, and he can feel her watching him in the darkness. Waiting. He knows that she’s intrigued by something about him, or he’d be as dead as Kaneshiro right now.

       “Your name is not James Phillips.”

Her voice is the same light, young voice that greeted him in the karaoke bar, but now it lacks the Mousketeer accent she’d affected. Will cannot see her face, the light from the glazing doesn’t offer more than a dull blue glow that extends maybe two meters or so from the wall, and Mae Ozu knows it. She is a creature only truly comfortable in the darkness, a feeling he can empathize with and Will smiles, knowing she will see it.

       “No. It isn’t,” he replies.

A tiny sound, the rustle of material, then the sound of a soda-can being popped, liquid being swallowed. A pause and then,

       “You’re no bug collector either.”

       “No.”

She is tapping her fingertip against the side of a can, a soft rhythmic sound of consideration, curiosity.

       “You told my brother you wanted me to make you a display. But when I went to your hotel I saw this one there asking for your room number,” another swallow, a soft fizz as the soda settles in the can. “And this one I know.”

       “His name is Kaneshiro Fuji.”

       “ _Was_.”

Although he still cannot see her, Will knows she is smiling, can hear it in her voice.

       “He questioned my brother for hours you know? Just because he likes moths. Any fool with eyes can see he isn't a killer.”

There is a touch of scorn in her tone, but something else too. Something she doesn't want to show. She’s protective. Whether it’s of him - Kenji - or of his feelings about her, Will can’t be certain, but given the nature of her crimes he’s willing to guess it’s the second one. Carefully gauging his tone, he looks down at the ground in front of his knees. She’s maybe three meters from him. From this position he imagines it would take him less than a second to get to her, a fraction longer to wrap his fingers around her throat, but something tells him she’s already prepared for that eventuality.

       “Not everyone can recognize a killer,” Will raises his head and looks at the point in space he knows her eyes are, “You don’t look much like one from the outside.”

He can almost hear her lips curve upwards at that, and then the sound of her feet as she takes a step forward.

       “But you can see _inside_ people, can’t you?”

A prickle of electricity raises the hairs on the back of Will’s neck. What he’d initially taken for mere curiosity, suddenly feels like something else. Mae’s voice is soft and warm now, filled with something approaching fascination. She steps forward again, and now Will can see her, her pale heart-shaped face like a doll’s, illuminated in soft grey-blue light.

       “You’re Will Graham.”

It’s not a question, so he doesn't treat it as such, just continues to look at her. Her lashes fall thick and heavy over her eyes, casting them into black shadow. She’s still dressed in the sailor-suit, and in the loose left hand at her side she holds a dark metallic rod that Will instantly recognizes as a stun baton.

       “I read that woman’s website sometimes – Tattle Crime?” the word sounds odd on her tongue, the double ‘t’ sound not quite hard enough, “She said she didn’t think you died going off that cliff. You or... _Hannibal The Cannibal_.”

The baton swings a little, playfully.

       “Is he the man you’re with? Kenji said he was seriously good looking.”

Will breathes out, affecting a laugh. The muscles of his shoulders feel suddenly looser. He can see Mae Ozu now, and he knows just what kind of monster he’s looking at. A black haze radiates out from her like ink, polluting the people and the spaces she inhabits. He wonders if she’s been this way since birth, and knows in the next instant with sudden, perfect certainty that yes, she has.

       “Did you kill your parents?”

He speaks softly with a carefully observed tone of curiosity, although he knows Mae will understand it isn’t really a genuine enquiry, and her answering smile is full of delight.

       “Of course. They were always working, or going out to work parties. Leaving us with our aunt. She had money, and she never cared how long we were on the computer. Kenji was angry with me afterwards, but he got over it. He liked my aunt. She didn’t hit him with a coat hanger when he got Cs.”

       “You were what, eleven?”

Mae’s head cocks to one side,

       “Maybe ten? Too young to buy paraffin anyway.”

She drops into a crouch suddenly, her expression conspiratorial. In the room behind the panel, the light grows suddenly brighter, like the movie inside has finished.

       “Did you kill _your_ parents?”

The baton at her side taps on the ground, bouncing off the hard surface with a ringing metallic sound. There’s a coiled energy to her every move, like a small playful snake weaving and curling before it strikes. The thought reminds Will of something Hannibal said to him once years ago, maybe even the first time they really talked, and he realizes he’s grinning, lips pulled back from his teeth.

       “I don't think so. Not my dad anyway. My mom...I don't remember what happened to her.”

Mae’s bounces on her heels and frowns,

       “That’s just what I used to tell the psychologist: ‘I don’t remember’. She’d give me crayons and tell me to draw my dreams, and I’d draw her flowers and butterflies instead of all the smoke and blood and dark and mama screaming. I think she knew though. She just…didn't want to know.”

       “I imagine that’s a familiar dynamic for you.”

The tapping stops, but Will continues anyway,

       “People get to know you, but there’s something they don’t want to know. Don’t want to look at. You look like a girl on the outside, but you’re not. And it makes them sick to their stomachs when they start to see it.”

Mae stills, her forehead creased in a good approximation of girlish thought. Her head ticks slightly from side to side as if she’s considering his words, and she hums softly under her breath.

       “I’m not _sure_ that’s true. And that’s kind of a rude thing to say, don’t you think?” Her eyebrows lift in a pantomime of wounded feelings, “And now I’m not sure I like you much after all, Mr. Will Graham.”

Heat suffuses Will’s body, pouring out from his solar plexus along his limbs. Everything in his body is telling him to move, that despite her carefully constructed appearance Mae Ozu is not a creature to be underestimated, and yet Will finds himself held by her. Their faces are less that a meter apart, and he cannot escape the mental image of his head inside a pair of giant jaws, a lion-tamer alert in every sinew for the inevitable snap. A tiny fractional tightening of her grip on the baton, and Will hears the words before they even register in his brain.

       “What was her name?”

The girl’s head lifts, and it’s like he’s a magician that’s performed a party trick she’s been petulantly waiting for. Wrinkling her nose, she rocks back on her heels, balancing her weight.

       “That’s not important is it?”

       “Then tell me it.”

She turns to look at the window and her face in profile is striking, suddenly decades older with the cold quality of marble. It’s the same look Will has seen on Hannibal’s face many times in the past, the look of someone practiced at removing themselves from realities they know to be problematic.

       “ _Mineko Iwasaki._ ”

The pronunciation is clipped, carefully drained of emotion, and yet Will feels every syllable of the name loaded with the meaning Ozu has given it, who she was, what she’s come to represent. He can almost see her standing to the side of them, shimmering, bright and vibrantly colourful.

       “She was his hummingbird.”

An abrupt explosive sound escapes from Mae’s throat, but it’s less a laugh that it is an emission. As if something vile has gotten stuck in there and she can’t cough it free.

       “That’s what he used to call her. His 'hachidori'. Like she was this harmless iridescent thing, flitting from flower to flower. And him flitting after her, like a fucking…dog.”

The volume of her voice has increased, tiny cracks forming in her perfect mask,

       “But when she was around her friends, the girls, I heard the way she talked about him. And about the others. All of them. All the men…she was _fucking_ behind his back.”

Will can see the black around her now, spreading outwards like ink through water and it’s both terrible and beautiful. She stands and her hands spasm at her sides, clutching the baton like it’s a baseball bat she wants to take to someone’s skull.

       “All that year he left me alone, following after her, wherever she went, carrying her fucking coat. I’d looked after him our whole lives, and all it took was one glimpse of her magical fucking pussy and I was forgotten. Everything that I’d done for him…”

Her rage is incandescent, contained as it is in this small body, rolling outward in ever increasing waves, and watching her Will tenses and relaxes the muscles in his calves, his thighs, knowing that when the moment comes he cannot stumble.

His eyes drift sideways to Kané’s body and fix on his left ankle. His black socks are drawn back and underneath the cuff of his trousers, he can see the glint of something metal against the pale skin. The leather .38 holster under his jacket is empty, but Will knows instinctively that Fuji is exactly the kind of cop who would carry a second non-standard issue weapon.

       “What happened to her?”

Will interrupts her mid-sentence, and it’s like he’s thrown her off balance. She inclines her head to look down at him with an expression full of disgust.

       “I didn’t kill _her_ if that’s what you’re asking?" 

       “I know that.”

Will’s meets her eyes with his expression open,

       “If you’d killed _her_ I’m guessing we wouldn't be here right now. And those five girls you slaughtered would be tucked up at home in their beds.”

Mae’s lip curls, and he can feel she’s almost done with him,

       “She drowned. Stupid little bitch went skinny dipping drunk one night with some guy, and ended up being dragged into shore with next morning’s fish.”

       “And Kenji couldn't get over her.”

Her hands go loose at her sides and Ozu rolls her head back on her neck, to look at the ceiling,

       “It was like her dying tied her to him for life. Like she became some kind of goddess. His beautiful hummingbird. Perfect and pure, and preserved under glass forever. Nothing I could say could change his mind, and seeing him like that, so…”

       “Helpless?”

       “Heartbroken for her, weeping in his room. Wouldn't come out. It drove me fucking CRAZY. All those years I’d looked after him, protected him even though I was supposed to be the little one, and he was still so fucking WEAK!”

She stretches up to the ceiling, on the balls of her feet, and in the same instant Will is rolling to the side, his hand closing over the holster on Kaneshiro’s ankle. His finger slides into the trigger guard, yanking it backwards, and then suddenly pain explodes from his lower back. The centre of it burns like fire, the tendrils reaching out through his nervous system like the sting of a Man O’ War, and Will feels himself convulsing, sparks behind his eyes and his jaws clamped tight, sweat pouring from his neck.

The pain stops and he’s rolled onto his back with the shove of a foot, fingers nerveless and closing on the open air. Above him, Mae Ozu stands looking down into his face, a small, slight smile playing over the corners of her mouth.

       “That was stupid Mr. Will Graham,” she says, and touches the baton to his solar plexus.

The sensation is like a fifty-pound rock dropped on his chest, white-hot, and Will black outs for a second. His heart feels like it’s being ripped from his chest, pulled out through the ribcage, and a feral sound he doesn't even recognize as his own spirals out from the back of his throat. He feels his knuckles on the ground on either side of him vibrating, but it’s like they belong to someone else. Then it stops, and he’s laid out in the centre of the tornado, lights flashing behind his eyes, limbs twitching.

       “I feel bad about this.”

Mae’s voice is soft and considerate, and then there’s a tiny metallic sound that reminds Will of Hannibal’s kitchen and his eyelashes stutter open, tears running freely down his cheeks. Kneeling at his side, Ozu’s pale mask of a face has assumed an expression of sadness. In her hand she holds a silver knife, the bright edge curved like a crescent.

       “I would have liked to talk some more. I think maybe you _get me_ , you know?”

The muscles in Will’s neck feel rigid, but somehow he manages a nod, and she smiles at him, tenderly, almost sweetly, traces his hairline with her fingertips.

       “You see what’s really on the inside too. Just like me,” she nods, “I think we could have been friends.”

The pain in his neck is sharp, but then blossoms outwards like a flower. Will can almost feel the petals unfolding, deep red and warm, covering his face and spilling down his cheeks. Gentle hands stroke his brow, and for a moment they feel like they could be Hannibal’s. He thinks he’s smiling.

_“I’m sorry I told you to go…”_

His voice is just above a whisper and there’s liquid in his throat. Lights blur, dappling above him and for a moment he’s back in the woods around the cabin, glancing up through sunlit leaves, at peace and happy.

_“Will.”_

And there’s Hannibal at the door, one hand lifted. Will tries to lift his hand in answer, but it’s so fucking heavy, so heavy and cold, and Hannibal’s face doesn’t look right. He looks afraid. His own eyelashes flutter open and shut, into light and dark, in and out of reality, and then he’s aware of sudden movement all around. Voices, a man shouting words in Japanese, and then a girl is crying, screaming out a reply, and he’s not sure which version of the world is real any more.

_“Will, stay with me.”_

And then there’s pressure, sharp and insistent, like the jaws of small animal clenched around the pain, and the image is swimming with the tears in his eyes. His back is scraping along the floor and strong hands are pulling him up into a sitting position against the wall. His eyes open, lids like lead, and Hannibal’s face is in front of him, pale and streaked with blood in the light from the open door behind him.

       “Can you hear me?”

Hannibal’s fingers are spread across his throat, a tight insistent pressure at one side. Behind him Will can see another figure, a man, and when he starts to speak he realizes it’s Kenji Ozu.

       “Oh Je... We have to…we should call an ambulance…”

His voice is empty, full of shock, and then he speaks again and this time Will doesn't recognize the words, but he hears the powerful anguish in every syllable, the repeated question. Mae’s shrieked reply to him is like a wild animal.

       “She wanted to show you that you deified a fake. Your precious hummingbird was just a bug.”

Will starts to laugh, but the look on Hannibal’s face stops him. Kenji’s hands are fists at his side, clenching and unclenching with emotion,

       “You’re talking about...about  _Mineko_? Is  _she_ what this is about?”

He sounds broken, like a child, his feet shuffling forward on the rough ground. The blue light from the window illuminates both their profiles, and now they look almost identical. At her side, Mae’s hand hangs limply, the half-moon knife dangling from her fingertips, and gently her brother takes it from her. He speaks softly and the words are consoling, the words of an older brother to his little sister, reassuring her, soothing her. Will’s eyes drift back to Hannibal, questioningly, and he frowns deeply. The hand exerting pressure on his neck shifts, as he pulls the necktie roughly from around his collar, binding it around Will’s throat.

       “He says she is the only one he truly loves. That she has always been the only one.”

There is a small slight sound then, like the sound a game bird makes when it’s disturbed from its nest. It’s less a cry than it is a sound of surprise, a soft exclamation, and then Kenji Ozu is holding his little sister’s face with outspread fingers as she bleeds out from the half-moon wound in her throat. Her expression is serene, full of love as she returns her brother’s gaze, and then slowly her legs fold under her like origami crane, and she slides to the ground. Will thinks he has never seen anything more beautiful.

       “We need to go.”

Hannibal’s voice is strained, almost angry as he draws him back, fingertips snap an inch from his nose. Behind him, Kenji has slumped to the floor still holding his sister. Idly, Will wonders what will happen to him now. Whether they need to worry about him.

       “Will? Focus. You’re still losing blood. I need to get you to a hospital.”

He knows he’s right, but even as he feels Hannibal’s forearm arm passing under his knees, the jolt as he’s lifted, he’s protesting weakly.

       “We can’t…Hannibal…you can’t take me to….”

The look he’s given is a mix of many emotions, none of them seeming to fit with the Hannibal he knows. Frustration, anguish and guilt are written harshly into the lines of his face and, touched, Will lifts a shaky hand to his cheek.

       “Hey. This wasn’t your fault you know? We chose this together. But you have to try and fix it now.”

Hannibal jaw works once, and it’s a terrible, desperate expression. His arms grip tighter around his back as he starts forward and the motion jars the last of Will’s breath from his body, consciousness slipping away from him.

       “Remember, you made me a promise,” he manages to say, and then darkness swallows him.

 

∞

 

The bright white room he wakes into couldn't be further away from the last one, and yet the first emotion Will feels when he opens his eyes is fear. The lighting and array of equipment around his bed are unmistakable, and he knows instantly that Hannibal has ignored his warning and brought him to a hospital. Rolling his head back, he stares at the ceiling and grits his teeth with frustration. The police will surely have been informed of a patient with a stab wound to the neck, and there’s no way that they will be able to navigate their way out of a murder investigation once Kaneshiro’s body is discovered.

The door of the room opens and Hannibal enters and Will is already cursing him out with every bit of strength he can muster. He only stops for breath when he realizes he’s smiling. Hannibal steps to his side, and raising a hand, pushes shaky fingers through his hair. The look in his eyes is heartbreaking.

       “I almost lost you.”    

Will’s anger recedes from him like a tide. Hannibal’s hand rests on his head, before moving down to smooth over his cheek, cup his jaw. A thumb strokes the line of his cheekbone.

       “You’d lost a lot of blood. You’re lucky they had enough. B positive is rare in Japan.”

Will smiles faintly,

       “It’s rare most places.”

He reaches a hand up to cover Hannibal’s and feels the light tremor that’s still running through him. Hannibal’s mouth twists,

       “If I’d been a few minutes later…”

And Will shushes him like one of his dogs, makes soft soothing sounds full of nonsense words, that would be ridiculous if they weren’t exactly what he knows Hannibal needs to hear.  Folding himself down onto the bed beside him, the other man leans forward to rest his forehead against his with parted lips, his breathing unsteady, and his hands slide around to gently grip Will’s forearms.  

       “Hey? Hey…” Will can only nudge at him with his nose, trying to smile, “I’m ok. I’m going to be fine. You found me.”

He touches Hannibal’s lips with his own, only gently brushing at first, and then when he looks at him with that broken expression, frowns at him, catches his full mouth. Hannibal’s lips part under his, and it’s a different kiss to the desperate clutching one that they’d shared the night of his return. Warm spreads up from Will’s chest, flowering out between them as he reaches for the back of Hannibal’s head, pulls him in closer, fingers carding through the hair at the nape of his neck. They part softly, and now they’re both breathing unevenly, and it’s a moment or two before Will can speak.

       “So are you going to tell me how you plan to get us both out of here?”

Hannibal draws a deep breath and straightens, but he’s still not entirely together. Checking the cannula in the back of Will’s hand, he glances at the status of the bag hanging beside them.

       “There’s no need to get us out. This is a private clinic. Only two people know we are here, and both of them can be entirely trusted.”

Will’s eyes widen as Hannibal reaches behind him to open the bag that he’s brought, taking out containers of food. The smell of hot fresh miso and chicken wreaths out from them and setting them down on the table, he breathes a laugh at Will’s expression of confusion.

       “Since when do we know anyone who can be _entirely trusted_?”

Hannibal’s smile is a thing of fragile beauty,

       “Since I was recently reminded of just how strong the bonds of true family really are.”

His hand moves to Will’s hair again, pulling the curls to wrap around his fingertips, and a sigh falls from his lip that sounds suspiciously like contentment.

       “Now can you try and sit up a little more. I’d really like to see you eat something before you get some more rest.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some ends need tying, some small mysteries need solving, and I think maybe Hannibal and Will could do with some alone time in the final chapter, what do you think? Thanks for reading and commenting all those that have, you make my morning coffee that much sweeter with your kind words. The end is in sight!


	10. Lovers

# 恋人

[lovers]

 

Will can’t remember the last time he attended a graveside funeral, but thinking back he imagines that it was probably Freddie Lounds’ fake service in Baltimore, and he’s not sure if that one even counts. Before that it was probably his dad’s service, way back in the 90s. Even so, there’s something strangely and achingly familiar to him about watching as a casket is lowered into a hole in the semi-frozen ground. Familiar and bleakly sobering.

From the corner of his eye, he sees Hannibal walking slowly to join him. Having delivered their formal condolences in person to Kaneshiro Fuji’s parents, he looks suitably stone-faced and somber.

       “There will be a gathering at the house afterwards. I offered our apologies.”

Will frowns. Rubbing his gloved hands together he breathes out a cloud of misty vapor.

       “It’s getting cold.”

       “It’ll be colder in the mountains.”

There’s a question mark in Hannibal’s voice that makes him glance at his face. His expression is perfectly impassive, but Will is practiced now at noticing all his tells, his unspoken need for reassurance, and moves in closer to him. 

       “I’ve never felt the cold before,” he says.

A man steps away from the main funeral party and begins walking towards them, and it takes Will a few seconds to realize that it’s Inspector Nakamori. His gait seems slower and stiffer than before, and the hard lines of his face are tinged with an unhealthy yellow. As he nears them he lifts his hand in a greeting and Hannibal reaches to take it, enclosing it in both his own. They exchange formal greetings in Japanese, before Nakamori’s eyes move apologetically to Will’s.

       “So sorry Mr. Phillips. It is very good of you both to come. Fuji-san was very grateful for your help. He was most honored that you came here to meet with us.” 

There is a cold weight in Will’s chest as he remembers Kaneshiro’s face as he last saw him, his stark expression of pain and surprise, and he swallows, forces himself to nod.

       “I’m not sure how much help I was to be honest. I believe Mr. Fuji had drawn his own conclusions about your killer by the time we arrived on the scene, he seemed like a very smart young man.” 

Nakamori nods somberly,

       “He was. He was. I only wish he had shared his suspicions with me before he went looking for Ms. Ozu alone.”

Hannibal leans imperceptibly into Will, and he can feel the warmth from his body transferring itself to him. Reaching to his throat, Will hitches the thick wool scarf there a fraction tighter. The healing wound on his neck feels cold and hot at the same time.

       “It seems Kaneshiro’s imagination was sparked by something you said during our meeting, James. He remembered during Kenji Ozu’s interview that he’d mentioned his younger sister had developed a drinking problem while he was in college, forcing him to drop out to care for her. Apparently her sealed juvenile record for a DUI contained suggestions that she had all the hallmarks of a psychopathic personality.”

Nakamori shakes his head, and the weariness he feels is palpable.

       “This has been a most tragic episode.”

       Indeed. I am so sorry for your loss Inspector, and for Mr.Fuji’s family.”

The old man shakes his head in acknowledgement. His voice is unsteady as he takes Will’s hand and bids them both a formal goodbye. As he walks slowly back to join Kaneshiro’s family, Will thinks that he has the look of a cop who’s finally decided he’s seen one too many bodies. Casting a sideways glance at Hannibal, he clears his throat.

       “Is Kenji Ozu dead?”

       “He is.”

Will draws in a long slow breath. The air feels like it’s going to snow. He looks up and the sky is pure white, the sun struggling gainfully to make it through the low hanging cloud.

       “Did you kill him?” 

       “No. He shot himself with Mr. Fuji’s gun not long after we left. I found him in the room next to the one I found you in. He’d been watching home movies of them both.” Hannibal turns to him slightly, “I would have killed him though, if he hadn’t done the job for us.”

Will nods, 

       “I know.” 

Hannibal turns away again, but Will can sense his need to say something else, and after a moment or two he says it. 

       “I was glad I didn't have to though.”

He reaches to tighten his own scarf and his expression when Will looks at him is complex, even compassionate,

       “He loved his sister with all his heart, and although he could not suffer her to live after what she’d done in his name, he did not wish to live without her.”

He glances at Will, and ghosts a smile,

       “It’s a sentiment I’m sure you can identify with.”

Will breathes a laugh and Hannibal’s body leans into his own again. His lips brush against his temple, pressing a kiss there. There’s no-one left at the graveside now, and Will isn’t even sure he’d care anymore if there was. Reaching for Hannibal’s hand, he pulls off his glove and slides his fingers through his. 

       “Let’s go home,” he says.

 

∞

 

It takes less than four hours to return them by train to Fujimoto, even so the sun is starting to set as they begin their walk from the station to the cabin. Outside the general store Ichi-San and Noburu are sharing a cigarette and both men raise their hands in a friendly greeting to their neighbours. 

       “ _Okaerinasai!_ ” 

Hannibal raises his hand to them both in a cheerful reply and Will can’t help but smile.

       “Sometimes I think you’re happier out here in the boon docks than you ever were rubbing shoulders and making hors d’oeuvres for Baltimore’s elite.”

       “Do you doubt it?”

Will laughs at his answer,

       “I guess not.” 

Hannibal’s eyes brighten, and he turns back to their path with a smile.

       “This place is not so different to where I grew up. Good honest working people who care for their neighbours. Simple natural beauty. If I’m entirely honest with myself, it’s the kind of place I always imagined I would end up in.”

       “At the end of your life?”

       “When I was ready to put down roots.”

Will gives his head a small shake of disbelief at that,

       “Why Dr. Lecter, if I didn’t know you better I’d suggest you’d had some kind of epiphany this last week.”

       “Not an epiphany, no.” 

Hannibal grins and it’s an expression of such genuine happiness that it quite transforms his face, he steps ahead of Will and the invitation to quicken their pace towards home is unmistakable, 

       “Although perhaps I have recently come to consider some fundamental truths about myself less than fundamental.”

 

They run the last half mile of the journey. It seems ridiculous, but at the same time entirely fitting. The track to the cabin isn't the most direct route, and once the pace through the woods gets competitive, Will’s heart-rate starts to climb as he realizes Hannibal is inviting him to race. They both know the land around the house well for miles, but even so Will knows he has the advantage. The path that he has worn through the undergrowth alongside the river is as familiar to him now as the creases on his own palm, and as Hannibal heads up the slope of the hill through the trees, he branches off to follow it.

The gradient isn't as steep as the forest trail, and Will runs sure-footedly across the last four hundred meters of ground, approaching the cabin from the rear. As he flattens his back to the side of the house there is no sound from inside, and triumphantly he slips around to the front and twists the key in the lock.

The cabin inside is dark, the smell of the straw tatami mats filling the space with a familiar pungent scent and Will breathes in, closing his eyes, letting the sense of peace pervade him. Motes of dust spiral through the air and he stretches out his hands to catch one, before realizing Hannibal is watching him from the doorway. Lips slightly parted, breathless from the run, the expression on his face is enough to break Will’s heart. He hesitates before he speaks, and when he does the words are only just audible.

       “I love you.”

And Will knows it, has always known it, but something breaks loose inside of him hearing Hannibal say it out loud, seeing the truth of it on his face. Something warm that spreads outwards through his chest to his limbs and flushes up his throat until it reaches his lips and he can feel himself smiling.

       “I know,” he draws in a breath, but it’s more with surprise at himself than anything else, because he’s not sure he’s gone to say the words before and meant them so completely. “I love you too.”

It doesn’t feel like enough though, so he closes the space between them, slides his arms around Hannibal’s waist and rests his head on his chest, pushing up under his chin. The tremor that he felt before is still there, vibrating under the surface, and pressing his lips to the hollow in his throat he tries to quell it.

       “When you left it wasn’t just to go to Aomori.”

He speaks into the curve of his neck and Hannibal’s stretches sideways, closing his eyes. The taste of his skin is a mixture of salt and cedar wood, and Will lets his lips rest there for a moment. 

       “Was I right before?”

It seems easier for him to answer when Will isn't looking at him, when the words are being murmured into his skin between kisses, and Hannibal makes a low sound in his chest. Something between a hum and a sigh.

       “Self-reliance isn't a defence for me Will, it’s a necessity. I was taught at the youngest possible age the dangers of allowing myself emotional attachments to others.”

He draws a breath,

       “But the experience of losing Mischa in the way I did gave as much to me as it took. I learned to contain myself, and that containing myself meant I would always have a reserve of strength to draw on. Later on, it wasn’t a case of hardening my heart, only continuing to fortify it in the way that had become my practice.”

Will frowns and kisses his jawline, the corner of his mouth.

       “Sounds lonely.”

Hannibal’s lips quirk,

       “I never thought of it as such. Until I met you."

He pulls his head back a fraction, looking down into Will’s eyes with his autumn-bright hazel ones,

       “You are uniquely inconvenient to me Will. You always have been. Where so many others have been happy to respect my defenses, you have only ever sought ways to undermine them.”

Will breathes a laugh and slides his hand underneath the hem of Hannibal’s shirt. The skin on his back is warm and damp with sweat from the run.

       “Finding ways inside.”

       “Will…” 

Hannibal takes a deep unsteady breath, and the arm around his waist tightens. Will smiles into his collar bone, and pushes a second hand under his shirt alongside the first.

       “You’re making this way too complicated, you realize that right?”

He traces Hannibal’s adam’s apple with his lips as he swallows.

       “I am?”

       “People in love with each other don't have to worry about this stuff.”  
  
       “They don’t?”

Will shakes his head,

       “Walls and defences are fine to keep everyone else out, but there has to be a door you can open if the right person comes knocking. Either that or you’d better figure out how to grow hair long enough for a ladder.”

This time it’s Hannibal’s turn to laugh, pressing his forehead to Will’s he noses his way to his lips, slides his fingers under the waistband of his jeans.

       “I’m not sure what conclusions I’m supposed to draw from your casting me as Princess Rapunzel.”

       “Hey, I’m not the one whose been avoiding a barber for months.”

They smile into each other’s mouths, and it’s like another layer has fallen away between them, another impediment dissolved. Warm hands move over skin, and Will feels the low-grade arousal he always feels when Hannibal touches him, looks at him, rising up like hot water from a spring. 

       “I’ve never done this with a guy before. You know that right?”

It sounds such a ridiculous thing to say at this moment, but he feels he has to say it. Just to make things perfectly clear before they go any further. Just in case Hannibal is expecting him to have even the slightest fucking clue about what he’s doing. 

In answer, Hannibal kisses the tip of his nose,

       “Am I destined to be your first in every way, I wonder? First therapist. First partner in crime. The first man you make love to.” 

He’s not sure if he’s teasing him, but the playful note in his voice is back.

       “I imagine we’re each other’s firsts, in a lot of ways.”

Hannibal’s chin lifts at the truth of that, but there is a dark mischievous glitter in his eyes. Brushing his lips against Will’s ear, he whispers into it.

_“I’ll be your last too, I promise you that.”_

And damned if that whole proprietary thing doesn’t send a spike of pure lust directly to Will’s cock. A deep flush of warmth bathes his throat and before he even knows what he’s doing, he’s turning and pushing and pulling Hannibal backwards, hands wide and fingers splayed across the width of his wide muscular back, towards the futon laid out on the floor of his room. 

Partly through surprise and partly, he suspects, because he secretly wants Will to be the one instigating this, Hannibal allows himself to be shoved and manhandled backwards. They fall in a tangle of limbs and bruisingly fierce kisses to the mattress, and Hannibal’s thighs spread wide under the force of his invasion. The hard ridge of his erection presses against Will’s thigh then, as he shifts position, against his own erect cock, and the low pitched groan Hannibal emits pulls an answering one straight from his groin.

       “Tell me what you want me to do to you.”

Hannibal’s eyes are glazed and lips reddened and soft from the scratch of Will’s beard, but Will still wants to draw so much more from him. He knows without a shadow of a doubt now, that what he wants more than anything in the world is to watch this man come apart entirely by his own hands.

Hannibal fists his shirt and pulls his body in against his own with a deep smearing kiss.

       “Take my clothes off.”

His hips rock upwards against Will’s as his fingers pull apart the buttons on Hannibal’s shirt, stretch and pull the undershirt underneath up and over his head. He hears the seams tear as he’s yanking it over his biceps and Hannibal grins against his mouth, his teeth nipping at Will’s lower lip. His shoes have come off somewhere between the door and the mattress, and ripping open Hannibal’s fly with one hand, Will pulls down his pants and underwear with one hand before shoving them down the rest of the way with one foot. Having Hannibal beneath him, naked, warm and twitching with lust, feels all the filthier now that he’s the only one with clothes on, and reaching his hands to Hannibal’s wrists he pins them above his head with just enough force to make it interesting.

       “What now?”

Hannibal’s flexes the muscles in his arms, pulling gently against the grip Will has on him. They both know there’s no way Will could hold him if he chose to get away, but the fact that they’re both playing a game with the same goal now is obvious to both of them. Pulling himself up to straddle Hannibal’s hips, Will looks down into his face and sees Hannibal grow still beneath him.

       “Tell me how you want me to touch you.”

Hannibal’s lips part, inviting a kiss, and Will gives it to him even though he didn't ask. It’s sweeter than the ones before, undercut with something fragile.

       “I don’t…” His breathes falters with his words. “Will…”

       “What is it?”

Hannibal breathes into his mouth, and Will realizes he’s hesitant to ask. A deep hot surge of want curls in his chest, and without asking him another question he reaches down to wrap long warm fingers around Hannibal’s cock.

       “Like this?” 

Tugging gently upwards, he glances down at his hand, at the soft silky smooth lip of Hannibal’s foreskin as it rolls up and back under his fingertips. It’s the first time he’s ever had his hand around any cock that wasn’t his own, but despite the obvious differences in size and appearance he’s more than confident he knows what he’s doing. Sliding a hand down to splay open on Hannibal’s chest, he leans his weight into the bed and strokes him firmly and deliberately the way he enjoys himself, watching his face. The tip of Hannibal’s tongue rests against his lower teeth, his eyes skipping between Will’s gaze and the sight of his hand around his dick like a man trying to hold onto the last remnants of his control. 

       “Look at me Hannibal.”

And eager to divest him of them, Will bends his head and and swallows him down.

He wants to close his eyes when he looks at Hannibal’s face, because the expression on it is almost too much, but he can’t look away. Hannibal’s fingers grasp at the air, his arms thrown out to the sides, and then they’re in Will’s hair, tangling and pulling and pressing into the nape of his neck in time with the low rumbling groans coming from his throat. Their eyes meet and Will thinks he could come just from the intensity of that one look.

       “Will…please.” 

Hannibal breathes his name out like a prayer. His hips buck underneath him as he fists handfuls of Will’s shirt, and Will has to let his dick slip from his mouth for a few seconds as he pulls it off impatiently. Their skin connects and the heat between them feels searing.

       “Everything,” Hannibal manages to say, and Will grins as he tears down his pants too, before settling himself back between the V of his thighs. His own erection feels rock-hard and hot as hell, and as he returns his mouth to Hannibal’s, it presses insistently against the soft curve of his ass. Hannibal shifts his hips minutely, and Will barely has time to register what he’s doing before he feels the tip of his cock breach the tight knot of muscle at Hannibal’s entrance.

They both still for a moment. The muscles in Hannibal’s abdomen contract as Will’s lips slip from him and find his mouth again. Breaking the kiss, he gives his head the smallest shake.

       “OK, I’ve _definitely_ never done this before, so you’re going to have to give me some guidance here. Or just…I don’t know…tell me to go slower if I need to.”

His fingers curl around around the base of Hannibal’s skull, and if he wasn’t sure before the rapid spike in the other man’s breathing and heartrate as he pushes forward convinces him. 

Arching his spine, he draws his face back to watch Hannibal’s as he enters him. He thinks of all the other times before this that he’s seen his mask slip, the brief glimpses of the man that he’s come to know alongside the inseparable monster, how fleeting they’ve been. Seeing his face now, washed clean of everything but his need and love for Will, he finds himself transfixed by him, the beautiful man and the beautiful monster. Hannibal’s throat works, his eyelids fluttering shut as Will adjusts to the feeling of being inside him, twisting his hips and gently laying kisses on first his bottom, then top lip. 

       “Tell me what you want,” he asks again softly.

Hannibal’s fingers are moving through his hair unconsciously, his eyes heavy lidded, but his face is young, broken open. His kisses Will, and it’s a kiss full of such gentle sweetness he feels tears come to his eyes.

       “Tell me you love me.”

       “I love you, Hannibal.”

He kisses his eyelids, his cheekbones.

       “Tell me again.”

Their foreheads press together and Will wants to surge forward into him, but instead he draws him into his arms, rocking him with the rhythm of his hips, until he can feel they’re finally synchronized, breath and body, that Hannibal and he can and will come apart together. 

       “I love you Hannibal,” and he wraps both arms around him as tightly as he can, “I love you. I see you. It’s OK. You’re safe with me now.”

 

 

  

 

 

# THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here be the end. Hope you enjoyed this labour of Hannigram love all those who read it, tusind tak to all of you who shared and recc'ed it on SM and ありがとうございます to everyone who has commented and kept me going over the last month and half. 
> 
> Y'all are my besties. **TA** x

**Author's Note:**

> _Like this fic? Please consider commenting on it and making my day! And if you _ **really**_ wanna show some love, come follow me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/Treacle_A) or on my [Tumblr](http://treacle-a.tumblr.com/), where I also makes Hannigram Manips for my [Insta](https://www.instagram.com/hannigrammanips) of the same name!_


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